


The Silence In Between

by feathers_and_cigarettes



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Background Winterhawk, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Five Stages of Grief, Flashbacks, Frank and Foggy friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, How the fuck did Winterhawk sneak in here, I took vague bits of DD S3 and ignored the rest, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Punisher Season 2, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Recovery, Ronin Clint Barton, Temporary Character Death, Thanos snap, The Author Regrets Nothing, jesus christ guys, nothing bad happens to the dog, this will have a happy ending i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/pseuds/feathers_and_cigarettes
Summary: (Now complete) They’ve been going for nearly seventy-two hours now and Nelson’s reached the point of hysterics. Frank’s not immune to the stress and exhaustion either – his hands have been trembling ever since he hit the forty-hour mark – but he’s at least able to man up and keep it together. They’ve been trading off trying to catch some sleep, though neither have been able to get more than two hours of fitful rest at a time. Every time Frank closes his eyes, he sees death, a horrific blend of Maria and the kids’ murders and the more recent disintegration of Matt Murdock.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Because you guys didn't hate me enough for my Venom Endgame fic. This fic is going to get heavy but I swear to god, it will have a happy ending (it will end up Endgame compliant except for the stupid shit I didn't like - looking at you, Steve Rogers). Sometimes you just need to torment Frank Castle a little bit that's all. Thanks to [Sevdrag](http://sevdrag.tumblr.com) for having one (1) emotion beta'ing this for me.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com) and yell at me if you want.

Frank leans back against the truck’s bench seat, sips his coffee, and idly contemplates whether he has the energy to throw Nelson over the bridge and into the Hudson River.

They’ve been going for nearly seventy-two hours now and Nelson’s reached the point of hysterics. Frank’s not immune to the stress and exhaustion either – his hands have been trembling ever since he hit the forty-hour mark – but he’s at least able to man up and keep it together. They’ve been trading off trying to catch some sleep, though neither have been able to get more than two hours of fitful rest at a time. Every time Frank closes his eyes, he sees death, a horrific blend of Maria and the kids’ murders and the more recent disintegration of Matt Murdock.

How Nelson’s life has avoided being cut abruptly short in Frank’s presence, he’ll never know. The man’s got more luck than a four leaf clover on a sunny Saint Patrick’s Day.

“No, I cannot hold,” Nelson’s voice snaps from outside the car. “Yes, I realize I’m not the only one calling, but I need to speak to Agent Madani and I’ve been trying to get through for two days.” He paces back and forth between the car and the railing, his long hair falling right back into his eyes as he pushes it back. Guy looks about as shitty as Frank feels.

“Franklin Nelson of Nelson, Murdock, and Page, tell her I have Fr-, uh, Pete Castiglione here,” Nelson says, his hand finally going up to his hair and staying there. “No, do not put me on hold, this is urgent!”

Frank snorts and swallows another mouthful of tepid coffee. They don’t even have any proof Madani’s still alive and the Department of Homeland Security sure as shit ain’t going to be forthcoming with that information in the middle of an international crisis.

He glances at the glove box where his own cell phone’s stuffed and hesitates. If Madani’s still alive, he’s got a hell of a greater chance at getting through to her than Nelson does, but the idea of turning his phone on and seeing the photo of Matt he’d taken just a week before nauseates him. Matt had been dead asleep and shirtless on the couch with Max, his socked feet tucked into the couch cushions and one arm thrown over the pit bull’s back. It was such a rare sight - the asshole slowing down enough to take a break from both the courtroom and taking out his rage on scumbags - that Frank hadn’t been able to resist snapping a quick picture.

It’s the only picture he has of Matt, the only thing he has left of his new life except for Max, a small silver cross that clinks against his dog tags and wedding band round his neck, and a lawyer that talks far too much for his own good.

He doesn’t open the glove box.

Max jerks his head up from the back seat as Nelson yanks open the passenger door and slumps onto the bench.

“They put me on hold,” Nelson says, breaking the silence after a long moment. “Wanted to transfer me to some pencil pusher under Madani.”

Frank grunts and finishes his coffee. He crumples the paper cup and tosses it in the back seat for Max to shred and looks out the window, still unable to look Nelson in the eye.

“Maybe I should just pretend to be you. I’ve tried everything else I can think of that’s not, y’know, threatening her legally, which I don’t think would go over well,” Nelson sighs. “Or if you want to actually help out instead of stealing dog food and coffee, you could call her. You’ve got her direct line.”

That gets him. Frank’s head whips around and he fixes Nelson with the coldest murder face he can possibly come up with, a face that used to be able to send Nelson into fits of nervous babbling and backpedalling. He didn’t need Nelson with him in the first place, a condescending, noisy reminder of everything Frank’s lost. His hand clenches on the gear shift, his lip curling into a snarl.

“You’re gonna have to talk at some point, Frank! You’re gonna have to do something other than overdose on caffeine and drive us in circles!” Nelson yells, voice full of fury and derision. They’ve never really gotten along enough that Frank would have called them friends, but they had a level of mutual respect at one point, something that’s shattered along with seemingly half the population. “Big bad Punisher doesn’t even have the balls to _try_ to find out what happened to his boyfriend and best friend, huh? Get it together, Frank!”

Frank lashes out without thinking, catching Nelson squarely in the nose. Blood spatters onto his knuckles, bringing him back to reality with a visceral jolt. Red hovers around the edges of his vision, the darkest parts of him singing at the sound of Nelson’s cry of pain and the sight of fresh blood staining his stupid salmon-coloured button-down.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Frank!” Nelson’s voice is muffled under his hands and he jerks away as if there’s anywhere Frank can’t reach him in the truck. He holds his nose with one hand and gropes around in the footwell for loose napkins.

The red mist fades as Max’s nose snuffles in Frank’s ear, the sharp crack of the pit bull’s tail whipping against the back seat breaking through the bloodlust. Nelson is not the enemy. Nelson isn’t responsible for taking his family from him.

“I just want my wife back, Frank,” Nelson mumbles, voice cracking with grief as he dabs at his nose gingerly with a crumpled Burger King napkin. “I figured you of all people would get that.”

Frank’s pulse spikes again, but he forces down his impulses and instead simply glares. “Don’t,” he rasps, throat feeling like he swallowed gravel as he speaks for the first time in nearly two days.

Nelson winces and shoots Frank an apologetic look. He sniffles, rolls down the window and spits out a bit of blood. “Sorry, that was out of line,” he admits as he rolls the window back up and rests his head against the door frame. “Just don’t fuckin’ punch me again, okay? Truce?”

Fucking lawyers. Frank eyes Nelson’s outstretched hand, the mention of Maria and implication of Matt still stinging. He sighs, tries to let out some of his negativity or whatever the fuck Matt’s bullshit meditation CDs preach, and counts backward from ten before shaking Nelson’s hand.

The blood covering both their hands seems ominous, but Frank’s not willing to dwell on that for too long. He’s lost enough in the past week that keeping Nelson around and safe is worth the annoyance.

~*~*~*~

_“You ever think about how we got here, Frank?”_

_Frank grunts and stretches, hissing slightly at the post-coital burn in his muscles. He reaches up with both hands to run through his hair, letting his bare calf rub against Matt’s. “Pretty sure we took a cab and went in the front door,” he drawls, smiling softly as Matt rolls his eyes. _

_“That’s not what I mean.”_

_“Tell me then,” Frank replies, tugging Matt down onto his chest. He’s not usually one for talking after sex and Matt’s never been too big on cuddling, but they find middle ground like this, with Matt talking through whatever deep thoughts went on behind those sightless brown eyes while Frank simply holds him and listens._

_Matt presses a kiss to one of Frank’s scars – surgical, collarbone – and shifts his weight so they’re pressed together from their chests down to their feet. His hands roam across Frank’s torso, curl around his neck, trace his face, sometimes following scars or mapping out veins, sometimes just seemingly trying to commit every inch of skin to memory. Frank would’ve thought he’d gotten tired of it after a year, but Matt’s just as entranced by Frank’s body now as he was their first time. _

_“Me and you,” Matt says after a moment of exploration at the bolt of Frank’s jaw, his perpetual stubble rasping against Frank’s. “How did we find our way here? Doing this instead of trying to kill each other?”_

_“I shot you in the head; probably scrambled your noggin,” Frank replies with a grin he knows Matt will feel. _

_Matt bites him, teeth just rough enough that Frank can see where this is going. He’s tired and it’s too soon for him to go another round, but Matt’s been insatiable lately and Frank Castle’s always prided himself on being an attentive lover. _

_It’s only been around thirty minutes, a fast turn around time for even Matt’s enhanced senses, so Frank lets his hands ghost over Matt’s lower back and sides before sliding slowly up to the still-tense shoulders. He kneads the muscles there and waits for Matt to finish his thoughts before he gets too riled up._

_“You believe in fate, Frank?” Matt continues, breath warm against Frank’s neck as he kisses the spot he’s bitten. “Divine intervention?”_

_Frank snorts but doesn’t offer his opinion. They’ve argued enough about faith and God and all the bullshit that goes with religion. A God that torments His children like toys and casts them aside at whim is no God Frank wants to give any kind of acknowledgement to. Matt has enough faith for them both and some to spare. _

_“You sayin’ being with me is a religious experience, Red?” Frank jokes instead, letting his legs fall open to allow Matt to settle more comfortably between them. _

_“Close to blasphemy,” comes the growling rebuke. _

_Frank hums, dragging his nails up the back of Matt’s neck to tug at his hair. “Pretty sure God ain’t much of a fan of me,” he says, feeling Matt’s cock twitch against his thigh. “’Thou shalt not kill,’ ain’t that a Commandment? He objects to us doing what we did not too long ago too, if half his followers are right.”_

_“God forgives us, Frank,” Matt replies, his tone so fucking earnest that Frank feels a pang of guilt at his disagreement. “I think He wants us to save each other. That’s why He brought us together; two sides of the same coin, right?”_

_“Matt…”_

_“I’ll stop, I’ll stop. I just was thinking about it, that’s all.”_

_Frank kisses him, all the words he still can’t bring himself to say coming out in a sweep of his tongue and a nip of teeth. Drawing back just enough to breathe, he nuzzles Matt gently, brushing his lips over his cheek. “Should take credit for savin’ me for yourself, Red.”_

_Matt feels lighter in his arms and Frank’s suddenly chilly. He gropes around for the blanket and goes to kiss Matt again only to find open air where he’d been not a split second before. _

_“Too bad you couldn’t do the same.”_

_Frank’s eyes snap open and Matt’s sitting above him now, eyes fixed just above Frank’s hairline. He crumbles before Frank’s eyes, bits and pieces of ash floating away, and Frank scrambles upright, desperate to hold onto him, to put the pieces back together, and –_

Frank jolts awake, his heart pounding in his chest. He heaves in several deep breaths and rubs his hands over his face, leaving them there so he doesn’t have to see Nelson’s pitying expression from across the room.

Max shuffles over from the end of the bed and flops across Frank’s legs with a sigh.

“You gonna try to go back to sleep?” Nelson asks quietly from where he’s seated at the small table. He’s finally ditched the tie and swapped out his bloody button-down for a Yankees t-shirt. The table’s covered in notes and photos of people Nelson’s been collecting, the grim story of the planet’s silent destruction lit by only the faint glow of the laptop.

Frank shakes his head, automatically reaching down to pet Max and hug the dog a little closer. He lets his face rest against Max’s scarred head and hides the tears that threaten to drip down his cheeks. How did he ever get through this nightmare the first time he’d lost his partner?

Okay, there was a bit of a murder spree the last time that was hollowly missing this time around, but at least then Frank had someone to hit back against. No weapon on the planet could have caused what had happened to Matt, to Marci, to Karen, and Frank’s trapped in complete helplessness with nothing to get vengeance on.

Nelson mutters something about showering and trying to catch a few winks and Frank grunts in acknowledgement, holding onto Max until Nelson’s finished digging some clothes out of a duffel and staggers into the bathroom.

Groaning softly, Frank slides out from beneath the threadbare sheets and sits on the edge of the bed.

The Event hadn’t happened the way it had in the nightmare, but that’s how his dreams have been lately. Taking one pleasant memory and twisting it into horror, forcing him to watch Matt or Maria or the kids – or all of them, that first dream – die before his eyes once more. He thinks back to the actual memory, of Matt’s confession that Frank had saved him, of Matt’s near desperation to slide inside him for the second time that night, and wonders if maybe Matt’s enhanced senses had somehow picked up that their time was limited.

He bites the inside of his cheek and stands, grabbing Max’s leash from the end table. Opening the door, he glares out into the night sky as Max trots to the end of his leash and does his business on an ill-kept bush. Frank’s careful to remain fully visible in the doorframe just in case Nelson leaves the bathroom for whatever reason; that first morning after The Event, Frank had dozed off on Nelson’s couch for thirty minutes and awoken in a panic when Nelson – who’d run down to the bodega for coffee - was nowhere to be found.

It’s now an unspoken rule that neither of them leaves the other’s sight except for bathroom breaks.

The shower kicks on behind the closed bathroom door and Frank lets out a relieved sigh. He whistles for Max and shuts the door, rubbing his stinging eyes with both hands. The headache that’s been lingering at the edges of his skull all day has returned in full force, feeding off his exhaustion and hunger. Everything he’s tried to eat has turned to ash in his mouth and what little he’s managed to choke down has come right back up within an hour.

He unclips Max’s leash and digs through his duffel, pulling out a small bag of kibble, a folding travel bowl, and a chicken and rice MRE after a moment’s hesitation. The stuff might taste awful but it got him through hell and back in Afghanistan without much indigestion; worth a shot at least. Running himself into the ground isn’t going to do him or Nelson any favours.

Max’s nails tap on the floor as the pit bull dances in place, waiting excitedly for his dinner. He, at least, is holding up decently amid the chaos of The Event and Frank and Nelson’s frantic search for answers. Not much phases a good gamedog, Frank supposes.

His dog fed, Frank slumps down in Nelson’s vacated seat at the table and pops a couple ibuprofen tablets, swallowing them dry and poking at the laptop.

When Nelson’s not yelling at Homeland Security, he’s constantly on his phone or laptop, jotting down notes and muttering to himself. After two days of near-complete silence from Frank, Nelson stopped trying to bounce ideas off him and instead kept up a constant stream of chatter: names, times, locations, muttered curses about the Avengers. Frank had stopped paying attention after a while, but curiosity’s gotten the better of him now.

He rips open the MRE with his teeth and pours water from Nelson’s thermos into the heater bag. As he waits for the bag to heat, he scrolls through the news article, his eyes narrowing as reads the details of the Avengers’ war across the globe. He remembers the attack in Greenwich Village, remembers helping Matt direct panicked citizens away from the aliens as Iron Man and a pinched looking dude in a cape held the line. When they’d disappeared, Frank had thought that’d be the end of it.

Apparently not. Frowning, Frank sticks the MRE packet in the heater and sips Nelson’s water, reading further about the attacks in Scotland and Wakanda, where the Avengers made their stand alongside King T’Challa and his armies. Human enemies? No problem. Aliens? Frank can’t say he’s ever had the opportunity, but if it ever comes down to it, he knows he’ll end up fighting. What a regular guy with a bunch of guns can do against aliens with weapons that can turn half a planet to ash, he has no idea though.

He shivers and shuts the laptop, trying to shake the sudden feeling of dread in his gut. In the washroom, Nelson drops something and Frank nearly jumps out of his skin and nearly knocks his MRE over in the process. Hissing a curse, he grabs the plastic spoon and stirs the container and reluctantly takes a bite. The tasteless mush reminds him of Kandahar and that sure as shit shouldn’t be soothing, but it strangely is; a time when everything was simpler, black and white and no fucking aliens.

Frank eats mechanically and forces himself to not read Nelson’s notes, instead gently touching each photo laid out on the table: Marci Stahl, Brett Mahoney, Curtis Hoyle, Karen Page. He lingers at Karen’s photo, his heart twisting at the sight of her laughing at something off camera. Curt too, is painful, though Frank’s still holding out hope the guy’s retreated to his girlfriend’s family’s home near Buffalo.

As painful as Karen’s image is, nothing compares to the last photo. Frank sucks in a breath and bites the inside of his lip so hard he tastes blood as he automatically reaches out for the photo. He traces the outline of the stubbled jaw, the soft quirk of the lips, and he can feel the blood pounding in his skull. A post-it note stuck to the photo reads: “Matthew Murdock – Manhattan, confirmed.”

He’s been avoiding the reality of what happened, refusing to acknowledge the permanence of The Event. Matt’s photo sinks that home; he’ll never get to argue with Matt over trivial shit again, never get to marvel at how the man can’t cook to save his life but his omelettes for whatever reason are to die for. He won’t wake up to fingers tracing his face, won’t feel the solid warmth of a hand at the crook of his elbow walking down the street. Everything he had to come to terms with when Maria was murdered comes crashing back and Frank’s dizzy with the weight of it.

“You kinda knew what was going to happen though. Did you really think anyone can survive around you for very long?”

Frank’s head snaps up at the voice and he reaches for his gun, ready and on his feet in an instant. Marine training kicks in and he moves silently back into the corner, scanning the room for the source of the voice. He can still hear Nelson in the shower and Max is tilting his head curiously at him from the foot of the bed.

“Really, Frank? Figured you’d know my voice by now.” Glittering red eyes flash from a figure standing in the corner of the room. He leans against the wall, flipping a baton almost lazily as his smirk stretches beneath his mask.

Frank’s blood goes cold and he lowers his gun. Of course he knows that voice, would know that voice anywhere, but there’s something… _off_ about it, an edge that’s not normally there even when taunting scumbags in alleyways. He takes a step toward the red-suited figure, his legs threatening to give out from underneath him.

“You’re not Matt.” Alien? _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ goes running through Frank’s head and he realizes that aside from the turning-people-to-ash bit, he has no clue what the aliens are actually capable of.

The Devil chuckles, low and dark. His mouth twists into a grin as the shadow of the horns on his helmet stretch up the wall, looming ominously in the motel’s small space. “I’m Matt,” he says, holding up his hands. “Matthew Michael Murdock, codename Daredevil, born May 10th 1982, father’s name was Jack, mother’s name is Maggie, that enough for you?” He steps out into the light, the leather of his suit looking blood-drenched in the low light and Frank is nauseous at the sight. “What’s wrong, Frank? Not gonna give us a kiss?”

Frank swallows heavily and glances over at Max. The dog’s completely ignoring Matt, instead looking at Frank as if he’s lost his mind.

Maybe he has. Maybe The Event finally caused Frank’s fractured brain to finally topple over the edge. Maybe he just can’t handle the trauma of losing everyone he loves again.

He looks back at the Devil, whose head is tilted in a perfect imitation of Matt. “You’re not real,” Frank says hoarsely and walks forward until he’s nose to nose with the eerie red mask. “I’m dreaming again.”

“You’re not dreaming, Frank.”

“Still don’t make you real.”

“What does that make you then? Finally as crazy as old Billy?”

Frank grabs the MRE off the table, pivots, and throws it as hard as he can at the Devil. The mush splatters against the far wall and the spoon and container clatter to the floor and the Devil’s smirk never wavers.

“Guess that answers that question, then.”

“Fuck you,” Frank spits before cursing himself out roundly for arguing with a phantom.

The washroom door creaks open and Nelson appears in the doorway, toothbrush stuffed in his mouth and eyebrows raised as he takes in the mess on the wall and Frank’s defensive posture. He removes the toothbrush and waves it in Frank’s direction. “We can see if there’s some chips or something in the vending machine, but really, what did the MRE do to you?”

Frank gapes at him, goes to wave accusingly at the Devil, only to notice he’s gone without any indication he’d ever existed at all. The hair on the back of Frank’s neck stands on end and he sets the gun back on the table. “What did you hear?”

Nelson eyes him warily and adjusts the towel round his shoulders. “Nothing really; I thought I heard you talking to Max but then I heard you yell.” He turns around to spit in the sink and rinses. Shutting off the light, he stuffs his toothbrush and dirty clothes into his duffel and sits on the second bed, still watching Frank as if at any moment, he’ll snap.

_Foggy’s not stupid. You better get it together around him or he’s gonna find out pretty quick that you’re hallucinating,_ the Devil’s voice purrs in his head.

“Shut up,” Frank whispers to both of them, dropping back into the chair and pointedly turning away from Nelson.

“Always such a joy, Frank. Wake me up in like two hours?”

The pop of a pill cap might as well be a gunshot to Frank’s shattered nerves and he forces down his reaction. He grunts an affirmative, knows the pills will keep Nelson out for around four hours, and sets his alarm accordingly. The guy could do with some rest, he’s not used to running on fumes.

_Just you and me for the next four hours, then, Frank. Let’s see how many people we can add to the dead list, shall we?_

Frank barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.


	2. Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after The Event, Frank struggles to accept his new existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sev for the quick beta and the BDB discord for sprinting with me. Gore and smut (not together) warnings for this chapter, plus more angst, sorrynotsorry.

Frank hasn’t been drunk in nearly a year. He’s too afraid of the loss of control, of the horrors he sees and inflicts when he’s intoxicated. The last time he was drunk, Nelson disappeared for three days and Frank nearly went out of his mind thinking The Event had happened again.

The Devil had whispered in his ear the entire time, voicing every one of Frank’s fears even as Frank attempted to drown him out with booze.

Frank’s got a love/hate relationship with the Devil. When they finally caught up with Madani in DC, she’d had both Frank and Nelson undergo psych evals, which went about as well as could be expected. Frank keeps the anti-psychotics the shrink prescribed in reserve for the nights where the Devil just won’t let up, but largely avoids taking them. The Devil may just be a haunted memory of the man Frank had loved, but it’s all he has left and it hurts to think about having nothing but silence in his head.

“C’mon, Frank. How long has it been since we had a good time?” the Devil purrs beside him, leaning back with his elbows against the bar. “You’ve thrown this guy out twice already this week. He’s just going to keep coming back.”

Frank should be grateful that the Devil’s egging him on – it’s not something Matt would’ve done, despite his willingness to jump into any fist fight he came across, and it’s easier for Frank to see the Devil as just a manifestation of his own subconscious when it pokes at his more violent impulses.

Right now though, Frank just needs the Devil to shut up. He’s not supposed to drink on the job, but the owner’s usually the most shitfaced person in the bar, so Frank figures a couple drinks won’t hurt. He waves at the bartender and signals for another shot of whiskey, keeping his eyes trained on the drunk across the room.

The guy hasn’t seemed to register Frank as any kind of real threat. He continues to pull the same shit he pulled earlier in the week, harassing women and picking fights with other patrons, and Frank’s decided he’s had about enough of his bullshit.

Ignoring the dark smile that’s appeared on the Devil’s face, Frank downs his shot and moves across the bar, the once familiar red mist starting to cloud his vision. People instinctively give him space, quickly moving aside to let him pass, their heads ducking to their drinks or to whisper to one another.

The Devil’s vanished for now, but he’s never far from Frank’s shoulder.

The asshole has a woman cornered against a table, his body positioned carefully between her and the exit. She’s clearly upset with him, constantly moving to try to get around him, but Asshole’s not a little dude and he uses his size to his advantage to keep her in place. He reaches out to grab the woman’s arm and Frank strikes, grabbing his wrist and twisting it painfully behind his back.

“That’s enough, buddy. Time to go,” Frank rumbles, yanking Asshole back and spinning him around toward the door.

Asshole’s had more than a bit to drink, and he shakes off both the initial pain and Frank’s grip with a wild yell. Lashing out, he catches Frank on the jaw with a surprisingly strong right hook and he follows up with a pushing shove, winding his fists into Frank’s black t-shirt.

The Devil laughs in Frank’s ear and Frank sees red.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Frank charges like a bull, grabbing Asshole’s own shirt and propelling him over one of the tables, sending half-empty plates and glasses crashing to the floor with a spray of glass. Frank’s boots crunch on the shattered pieces and Asshole’s nose crunches a split second after under Frank’s fist.

For the first time in nearly a year, Frank feels like himself again. The sound of bones snapping, the feel of flesh giving way under his fists, the scent of blood heavy in the air, they all blend together in a grisly symphony to welcome the Punisher back.

“See, Frankie, doesn’t that feel great?” the Devil’s voice whispers, floating along the red mist. “Careful with how hard you’ve got his nose, don’t want to accidentally kill him. Get the orbital socket again, you missed a spot on the left.”

Frank _does_ want to kill him though, wants to feel the exact moment the piece of trash’s heart stops beating, to feel that last rattle in his lungs. He _craves_ it more viscerally than he remembers ever craving someone’s death. The balance has been broken with The Event and while one lowlife’s death won’t fix that balance, it’s a start.

He pulls his fist back to smash back into Asshole’s left orbital, to completely obliterate any amount of distinguishing features the guy might have left. The Devil is smiling broadly now, a look that had once graced Matt’s face right before Frank hauled him into the bedroom. It jolts Frank out of his bloodlust with a dizzying lurch and the nausea hits him like a punch to the gut.

Retching, Frank teeters off Asshole’s battered form and topples to the floor. He can hear the guy’s wheezing gurgles above him – still alive but Frank’s done this enough to know that may not last – and the panicked shouting and screaming of the bar’s patrons.

One brave soul grabs Frank’s arm and hauls him upright, a second person grabbing his free arm and joining suit a second later. They’re shouting something that Frank can’t quite make out over the blood roaring in his ears and the Devil’s laughter, but Frank doesn’t put up a fight and allows himself to be dragged out of the bar and dumped unceremoniously into a heap on the damp concrete outside.

The red mist slowly fades from his vision as he pushes himself to his feet, his head swimming as he stands. A few people give him a wide berth, their eyes darting from his blood spattered face to his hands dripping with gore before scurrying off. It’s not a great part of town, but Frank’s pretty sure at least one of them will call the cops, and Frank’s boss will likely deny Frank’s existence. Either way, he’s gotta get it together and get back to his apartment before Madani gets wind of the incident.

The Devil’s strangely silent and Frank wonders if the alcohol’s drowned him out for the night, but nope, he falls into step next to Frank as soon as he rounds the corner. It’s a decent walk back to the apartment and Frank’s half-expecting to get picked up by the cops as he staggers along the sidewalk, keeping to alleyways and avoiding streetlights as best as he can.

Once back at the apartment, the Devil vanishes as Frank digs his keys out of his pocket and manages to get the door unlocked after a few tries. He stumbles in and kicks the door shut behind him, wincing as Max barrels into his shins and spins in a happy circle.

“Jesus tap dancing Christ, Frank, what the hell happened to you?”

Great. Nelson’s home.

Nearly tripping over Max, Frank makes his way into the bathroom to the soundtrack of Nelson’s increasingly shrill questioning. He can still feel the rage simmering just beneath the surface of his skin and he closes his eyes when he turns the faucet on, letting the water wash away the blood from his hands and tries some of Matt’s old meditation techniques.

“Frank, whose blood is this? What the fuck happened, man? Actually, nevermind, don’t tell me, plausible deniability, you can tell me if and when you actually need a lawyer.”

Frank growls, pushes himself off the basin, and slams the door in Nelson’s face. He turns the lock and moves back to the sink, splashing water over his face and grimacing at the metallic taste of blood. He thumbs his split lip once he’s cleaned up; it’s not bad, the bruising already forming makes it look worse than it really is, and he resigns himself to having to come up with some excuse to tell Madani if he’s going to see her in the next few days.

His job’s probably toast too. The bartenders like him well enough, but not enough to justify him nearly beating a patron to death in front of a full house. He supposes he’ll find out on the news later on if Asshole survived or not but either way, he doesn’t give a shit.

He slumps to the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting the cabinet prop him up. Shutting his eyes, he recites the prayers that have burned into his mind, the litanies a favourite focal point of Matt’s for his mediation. They’re hollow and empty compared to Matt’s usual reverence, but they do the trick and soon Frank’s drifting, the red mist of rage fading with the rhythm of the words.

~*~*~*~

_There’s always an edge to them, no matter how peaceful they can be. Everything’s always gotta be a fight when it comes to Matt Murdock, whether it’s sparring in the courtroom or on the streets or in the bedroom, and it soothes Frank’s demons as much as it irritates him. _

_They’re still arguing even as they enter Matt’s apartment through the rooftop hatch. Matt’s all sorts of worked up, his voice full of that self-righteous authoritative boom that makes Frank want to either deck him or fuck him, his arms waving in quick, angry jerks as he attempts to drive his point home. He yanks his helmet off and throws it unerringly onto the couch as he stomps over to the kitchen, fingers dancing impatiently over bottles in the liquor cabinet before he finds what he’s looking for. _

_Frank’s more careful, checking his guns over before setting them down on the coffee table and letting his bloodstained Kevlar vest and black hoodie drop to the floor. He’s barely paying attention to what Red’s going off about – likely Frank’s shooting a man between the eyes before the bastard could bring his KA-BAR up between Matt’s ribs – and his veins are on still on fire with the rush of adrenaline and violence. _

_Unlike Matt though, whose post-battle routine seems to just be to throw shit everywhere and deal later, Frank has a routine. He growls at Matt’s proffered bottle of gin, shouldering past him to scrub the blood from his hands in the sink. _

_Matt takes another long draught, slams the bottle on the counter, and crowds into Frank’s space. He’s not that much smaller than Frank and his face is a mask of rage even with his gaze slightly off target, all his pent up righteous fury and brazen arrogance on full display. _

_He’s never been more attractive, despite his preaching. _

_Dried blood has painted abstract patterns across Matt’s jawline, matching the crimson of his suit and the auburn streaks in his hair and completing the image of the Devil, the beautiful but deadly fallen angel. Frank’s not a religious guy, not anymore, but the comparison’s not lost on him, nor is the temptation that Devil represents. _

_Frank manages to ignore Matt’s posturing for the minute it takes him to rinse the soap off his hands and dry them on the dishrag tossed onto the counter. He turns to fully face Matt, straightening up to take advantage of the mere half inch he’s got on Red, and pushes back, their chests touching and breathing each other’s air. _

_Matt breaks first. Impulse control has always been a lost cause, especially when it comes to sex, for as long as Frank’s known him and Frank knows exactly which buttons to press after God knows how many months of them playing this game. He fists his hands in Frank’s short hair, his nails scratching at Frank’s scalp **just **hard enough, and licks into Frank’s mouth, all teeth and tongue and no finesse or technique. _

_Grinning almost ferally, Frank doesn’t back down, his hands gripping Matt’s hips hard enough to bruise even through the suit’s durable material. Matt tastes of blood and sweat and violence and Frank’s body is alive with lust, his nerves singing at every grunting curse and too-harsh pull of his hair. He bites into Matt’s lower lip, swallowing the resulting hiss with his lips as he fumbles with the overly-complicated utility belt around Matt’s waist. _

_Matt tears his mouth away from Frank’s, his breath coming in gasping little moans as Frank manages to undo the belt and shove a hand into his pants. Matt gets oversensitive too quickly thanks to his enhanced senses and Frank’s learned to ride that fine line to his advantage._

_Tonight though, he wants the fight. _

_Frank walks into Matt, pushing him backward into the kitchen island, stroking him to full erection with each step. They bite and suck at whatever piece of skin is the closest, the sound of their breath harsh in the silence of Matt’s loft. Pushing the tight crimson pants down, Frank grabs at the swell of Matt’s ass and squeezes another loud groan from his partner. _

_They take a breather to discard shirts, Matt swearing a blue streak as he fights with the heavy material of his suit. Frank smiles, quickly tugging at his own belt and pushing his pants and boxer briefs down in one move as he presses his advantage and boxes Matt in against the countertop. _

_The touch of skin on skin just stokes the fire even hotter. Matt’s hands clench on Frank’s hips where he’d left dark bruises the night before and Frank bites and sucks at the scars above Matt’s collarbone, his hips moving in short little thrusts. Frank doesn’t mind the pain as Matt finds the bruises he left himself, the ones on his ribs from a gang member’s kick, the still-healing gash on his forearm. Pain and pleasure have long since blended into his brain, even before he started sleeping with the Devil. _

_Matt pushes on Frank’s shoulders, one hand moving to an iron grip on the back of his neck. _

_Frank resists, sinking his teeth into the meat of Matt’s scarred pectoral muscle and relishing the clench of Matt’s fingers around the back of his neck and the thumb digging into the base of his skull. _

_They’re both hard, almost uncomfortably so, Matt’s cock smearing fluid across Frank’s torso as Frank slowly kneels. He ignores his own dick, raking his fingernails down Matt’s torso as he gives into the pressure on his neck, mapping out each muscle group with his lips and teeth and sucking hard enough to leave bruises of his own. _

_Matt’s free hand grasps Frank’s jaw once he’s on his knees, the hand at his neck coming up to fist into his hair and sending little sparks of lust through him. _

_“Open,” Matt pants, the pressure on Frank’s jaw and hair steady despite the fluttering of his abdominal muscles. His head is bowed and Frank wonders what his strange senses can perceive, if the heat of their bodies is enough to make them glow into some sort of recognizable shapes when they’re together like this. _

_Frank’s more than happy with what he can see: Matt’s cock hard and red in front of him, his muscles standing out in stark relief above, his face lost in the ecstasy of pleasure. He may love the fight, but this has become his favourite adrenaline rush by far. _

_He opens his mouth and Matt doesn’t waste any time in thrusting in smoothly, nearly choking Frank before he pulls out to the tip, his fingers stroking Frank’s throat in gentle contrast to the rest of his actions. _

_Wrapping his lips tightly around the tip of Matt’s cock, Frank suckles and bobs his head to figure out a comfortable but fast rhythm. He hasn’t been doing this long, only a few months, but he’s always been a fast learner and pinpointing what Matt likes has been easy enough. Breathing in deeply through his nose, Frank grunts around Matt’s cock and taps his thigh in permission. _

_Matt nearly growls above him and wastes no time in thrusting forward, his grip on Frank’s head like steel. His breath comes in needy little moans as he works himself in and out of Frank’s mouth at a brutal pace. _

_Frank shuts his eyes and concentrates on breathing through his nose, swallowing around Matt’s cock when there’s a pause in the rhythm, unable to do much more than just keep his lips wrapped around his teeth and keep pressure on the underside of Matt’s dick with his tongue. _

_It’s a heady experience. Frank can feel himself almost floating, surrendering to Matt’s victory – for now. His eyes feel heavy as he opens them, finding Matt’s light brown gaze almost glowing in the dim light of the billboard filtering in through the windows. Frank’s never sure if he looks angelic or demonic and right now he’s both, controlling Frank’s own pleasure and taking his own as he sees fit. _

_Matt’s hypersensitivity is both a blessing and a curse though, and it’s not long before his muscles are twitching and he’s spilling himself down Frank’s throat with an almost reverent cry. _

_Frank eagerly swallows what he can, pulling off and gasping for air before he begins to cough. He can feel his own spit and Matt’s come dripping down out of the corners of his mouth to his chin, a few stray droplets painting his jaw. _

_“So good, Frank,” Matt murmurs once he’s caught his breath, hips jerking away with overstimulation. He strokes Frank’s hair and joins him on his knees, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his busted up nose, trailing down to his cheeks and mouth and licking away every trace of fluid he can find. _

_The scent and taste of him swamps Frank’s senses and Frank can’t get enough. He kisses Matt back hungrily, one hand drifting to his own neglected cock and wrapping around the base. He wants to drown in Matt Murdock any way he can, through sex and violence, through lust and pain, and he won’t ever be the same after having had a taste of this maelstrom of a man. _

_Frank makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as he comes, his whole body shuddering as he gasps and pants into Matt’s mouth. He tastes blood and he’s not sure whose it is, the metallic tang seeming to sharpen everything around him. _

_Everything but Matt, who’s feeling more insubstantial, his rich taste and scent turning to ash in Frank’s mouth. _

_He tries to open his eyes, but everything remains dark. Heart skittering in his chest, Frank tries to hold Matt closer, but the man keeps crumbling under his fingers, everywhere they’re touching turning to dust. _

_Frank tries to yell, tries to scream, but he can’t hear anything but the sound of the blood pounding in his head. Matt is nearly gone now, nothing remaining but ash._

_Laughter pierces through Frank’s skull, an achingly familiar sound twisted and corrupted. _

_Red eyes flash in the darkness and suddenly Frank can see again, the once familiar kitchen now empty and filled with dust and debris. A blood red hand reaches out from the darkness, grabs Franks shoulder, yanking him around to –_

Frank lashes out, his voice hoarse and mouth acrid with blood. He connects with something solid – flesh that gives way under his fists – and he launches himself forward with a feral yell.

The red mist that usually follows his rage is gone though, and it doesn’t take him long to figure out he’s got Foggy Fucking Nelson pinned up against the toilet.

Nelson’s trembling violently but seems otherwise unharmed, his arms raised in a defensive posture in front of his face. His eyes are squeezed shut and he manages a surprising kick that lands solidly in Frank’s gut, knocking the wind out of him.

Frank goes down, wheezing, ignoring the Devil’s whispers to hit back just one more time.

“Just tell me when you’re back, Frank,” Nelson says, his voice a little shaky but otherwise seemingly all right.

Frank doesn’t want to be back. He wants to be back there with Matt – fighting, fucking, _living_. He’s starting to resent Nelson for his drive to search for answers, for his _hope_.

There is no hope. There’s nothing left but anger.


	3. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy makes a discovery, Frank makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter: description of panic attacks and Frank is kind of a dick but he has his reasons. I swear to god this will have a happy ending, but it's only gonna get worse before it gets better. I'll even do a nice happy holiday epilogue to make up for the angstfest.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)

_"Rubber bullets.”_

_Frank looks up from the table and types a number on his phone so he won’t lose his place. “The fuck you goin’ on about?”_

_Matt’s face is neutral as he pulls out a chair and takes a seat. He pushes a stack of ammo boxes aside gingerly, his mouth twisting in a brief frown that Frank almost misses. “What if you used rubber bullets?” he clarifies, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. _

_“And what? Use a collapsing KA-BAR too? Flashbangs instead of grenades?”_

_“Why not? Well, okay, maybe not the knife, but flashbangs will immobilize a number of enemies in an area without being lethal.”_

_Frank sets the box of bullets he’d been cataloguing down and glares at the man across from him, hoping Matt can feel the irritation even if he can’t see it. “And what? Completely take you out since you like to show up at my targets more’n half the time? Give some rapist a nice bruise with a rubber bullet and maybe break his collarbone? The goal is to break their fuckin’ lives, Red, not give them a few owies that go away with time.”_

_“Frank, I can’t protect you if – “_

_“Protect me?” Frank repeats, hackling at the implication that the goddamned Punisher can’t take care of himself. “What, you think just because we’ve been bumpin’ uglies for a few months that I’m suddenly your responsibility?”_

_A low blow, sure – hell, Frank’s probably more emotionally invested in whatever their relationship is at this point than Matt – but he’s exhausted from having the same argument week after week. He’s dangerously close to having some sort of feelings for Matt, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to punch his perfect fucking face in at times. _

_Matt leans back in the chair, face shifting to lawyer-mode and God help him, Frank’s gonna end the night yelling and storming out, he can feel it. _

_“There’s very little I can do for you, from a legal standpoint, if you get caught again. Homeland Security gave you a deal and you’re consciously breaking it. You’d get put away for multiple life sentences and there wouldn’t be a goddamn thing I could do about it except just show up and try to get them to have you serve them concurrently rather than consecutively,” Matt says calmly, only the slightest tensing of the muscles of his forearms betraying his annoyance._

_Frank shakes his head at the sheer audacity and rolls his eyes. “You’re the world’s biggest fuckin’ hypocrite, Red, you know that?”_

_“And you’re not my responsibility, Frank, you’re my ally and hell, after what we’ve been through, I’d like to think of you as my friend too.”_

_“Friends don’t let friends kill people? Is that it?”_

_“That’s not it, Frank, and you know it. Do you know what it would do to me if you ended up rotting in prison? No matter how much I think murder is wrong and a sin? Can’t we find some common ground here?”_

_Frank snaps his jaw shut, reeling at the implication that Matt cares about him too. His hands start to shake slightly with anger, the familiar fury rolling over him. Why was this getting to him so much? Their previous arguments about their ideal methology had been far more intense, usually ending in violence or borderline hate sex, but Matt’s trying to bargain with him of all things this time and it’s throwing Frank off._

_“I think you should go,” Frank manages to bite out, staring down at the table in front of him and clenching his hands so he doesn’t flip the fucking thing._

_Matt jerks in surprise and Frank doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see the expression on his face. “What?”_

_“You deaf as well as blind now? Go.” Frank knows he’s too harsh, but he has to make Matt leave. Nothing good ever comes from someone staying. “Get out. Go play superhero with Nelson and Page.”_

_Matt slowly rises to his feet, careful to not turn his back. “This isn’t a game to me, Frank,” he says quietly, hurt clearly audible in his voice. “I know I can’t change you. I don’t even know that I want to change you at this point, I respect what you do even if I disagree with your methods. I just want us safe.”_

_“I don’t,” Frank snaps, not caring that Matt can tell that he’s lying. “Taking out every last scumbag that I can is what’s most important to me and if I go down with them, then so be it. I don’t need someone nagging at me and pulling my punches. Get out, Red. Now. Don’t make me throw you out myself.”_

_Matt steps back as if slapped, reeling for a moment and then stiffening, reaching for his cane and suit jacket. “So this is it then?”_

_“Did I fucking stutter?”_

_“Frank, I…” Matt’s voice is full of pain and Frank can’t deal with it. They can’t keep doing this; neither of them can afford to get more emotionally involved than they already are._

_Frank shoves his chair back and surges to his feet, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. If Matt stops for a second to listen for it, he’ll know that Frank’s lying, that he’s just as hurt, that he doesn’t really want this. Reaching for his gun, Frank loads a clip with deliberate slowness and Matt steps back hastily toward the door. _

_Releasing the safety, Frank steels his face into a mask of stony rage and forces himself to watch as Matt’s face falls in anguish before he turns on his heel and opens the door._

_Watching Matt Murdock walk out the door of his safehouse is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. He swallows heavily, blinking away the stinging at his eyes and swearing a blue streak. Switching the safety back on, he slams his gun down on the table and sends boxes of ammo crashing to the floor with a violent sweep of his arm. _

_Fuck Matt Murdock, fuck his self-righteous Catholic saviour complex, and fuck him for making Frank actually care about someone like that again. He can’t do this again, it never ends well, everything always ends in blood and death and…_

_Frank turns and punches the wall, his fist plowing through the cheap drywall. He roars out his frustration and shakes the plaster and blood off his hand. Fuck Matt Murdock. _

_He’s out the door and looking into the hallway before he’s even aware of what he’s doing. Matt’s cologne still lingers in the hallway, but there’s no draft that should be there if he’d left. _

_The hair at the back of his neck stands on end as he stands in the hallway, the only sound his own harsh breathing. He tugs his KA-BAR from his belt, flipping it in his uninjured hand as he spots a flash of white near the door. _

_It’s Matt’s cane. Frank frowns and steps closer, knife at the ready. He kneels, a feeling of dread crashing into him as he sees the layering of ash coating the floor and turning the red at the end of the cane a rust colour, like blood that’s been sitting for days. _

_No, no, no, not Matt, he couldn’t lose Matt like this, he –_

“Frank, wake up. C’mon, Frank, it’s okay, you’re safe.”

Nausea hits him like a train and he barely manages to lean over the side of the bed to retch into the bucket Nelson’s holding out for him. He hacks and spits, his body drenched in sweat and trembling like a newborn.

“Can you hold this? I’ll get you some water,” Nelson says tiredly, pressing the bucket into Frank’s hands and taking care not to get too close. Three years they’ve played this song and dance, and Nelson’s finally learned to not touch Frank when he’s sleeping.

Max shuffles closer as Nelson edges past him out of the room. He yawns and stretches, then hops up on the bed and snuggles in close at Frank’s back.

Frank manages to sit up, setting the bucket down on the floor and grimacing at the taste in his mouth. He rubs his face with his hands, blinks away grogginess and reaches over to stroke Max’s scarred up head.

“Interesting you’d be thinking about _that_ memory,” the Devil comments from his spot in the shadows by the door, always lingering in Frank’s peripheral vision. “How many times have you played my death over again? Never my _actual_ death either.” He sighs and steps forward to stand at the end of Frank’s bed. “Those Homeland Security shrinks would have a field day with you if you told them even a fraction of the truth.”

“Shut up,” Frank says tiredly, closing his eyes to block out the hallucination.

“Make me,” the Devil counters, his mouth twisting in a cruel smile. “Take those meds if you really want me gone. Or, even better, get some healthy coping mechanisms instead of running yourself into exhaustion because you’re afraid to sleep and then taking everything out on Foggy.”

Frank clenches his jaw and stares stonily at the wall, cursing when the Devil pops up there too.

“We both know you won’t,” the Devil says in a singsong voice, his face leaning in close to Frank’s. “I’m better than that cross and the wedding ring around your neck. Don’t have to deal with the fact that you failed and got me killed if I’m always around, right?”

Max’s nose snuffles against Frank’s side and he whines quietly, one paw digging at Frank’s side. The thump of his tail against the thin sheets and mattress makes Frank jump to his feet, startled.

The Devil is right there, nose to nose with Frank and following even as Frank tries to look away from those hollow red eyes. If Frank wanted to, he could imagine he could smell Matt’s scent, leather and sweat and that stupid unscented shampoo he used that _definitely_ had a scent. If he closes his eyes he can almost feel the warmth of Matt’s body. This close, Frank can pretend nothing’s changed.

“You’re pathetic,” the Devil whispers, leaning in close to speak into Frank’s ear. “Look at you. So desperate to ignore your reality. What did I ever see in you, Frank? Hm?”

“Shut up,” Frank growls, pain lancing through his chest and suddenly he’s having difficulty breathing.

“If you’d let me leave that day I’d still be alive, you know that, Frank? If you’d just have let me walk away and gone through with it, this never would have happened.”

Frank can’t breathe, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, the Devil’s hand tightening around his throat.

“But no, you had to chase me down, had to apologize, had to make me _care_ about you and think you were something worthy of being loved. Loving you gets people killed, Frank! It got Maria killed, it got your kids killed, and it got me killed!”

Frank yells, an anguished cry that’s more animal than human, and falls to his knees. He digs his hands into his overgrown hair, scratching at his scalp and takes huge, panting breaths, a scream building at the back of his throat.

Max is by his side in an instant, nuzzling into him and licking his face frantically until Frank wraps his arms around the pit bull and buries his face in the thick neck.

He doesn’t hear Nelson coming back up the stairs, has no idea how long he’s been standing in the doorway. His voice breaks through the sound of Frank’s ragged breathing and Frank jerks in surprise, ready to see the Devil standing there.

“How long, Frank?” Nelson asks quietly, leaning in the doorframe with a glass of water in his hand.

The Devil might’ve been a safer option. Frank’s managed to keep his hallucinations hidden for the past few years, and though Nelson’s certainly seen his share of Frank’s nightmares, he has no idea to what extent they’ve gone.

Until now, at least.

“How _long_, Frank?” Nelson repeats, his face schooled into that same look that Matt used to get when he was trying to lawyer-speak Frank out of an argument. “How long have you been hearing voices?”

Frank looks away, focuses on tracing the old fighting scars on Max’s face. Like dog, like owner.

“Look, I’m not gonna play around here. I heard you arguing with someone a week ago and I thought you were on the phone, but you don’t even fuckin’ talk to _me_ outside of words that are absolutely necessary, so who would you _possibly _be having a conversation with?” Nelson snaps, storming into the room and setting the water down on the end table. He gives Frank a wide berth, but pulls out the chair by Frank’s small desk and sits down.

“Was talking to Max,” Frank starts, mentally apologizing to the dog and rubbing his ears.

“That’s a load of bullshit and you know it. Maybe I could have passed it off as you being on the phone the first time, maybe yelling at Max once or twice, but every _fucking _day this week I’ve heard you say more words than you’ve said to me in three years. How. Long.”

He’s caught and he knows it. He licks his lips, eyes darting over to where the Devil is standing, smirking, where Nelson had been before. “Three years,” he says hoarsely.

Nelson’s sharp eyes follow Frank’s gaze and narrow. “You’re seeing things too.”

Frank swallows, unable to look away from the Devil’s crimson stare. “Yeah.”

“Shit,” Nelson says, and he means it, Frank can hear the sympathy in his voice, along with a hint of pity that makes Frank want to vomit again. “That first motel room, way back. Something set you off and you threw your dinner at the wall. You were hallucinating then, weren’t you.”

It’s not a question so Frank doesn’t bother to answer it. Instead he clenches his jaw and reaches for the glass of water.

“Does… does Madani know? She can’t, she’s still sending you for security details,” Nelson says slowly, working out the details for himself – faster than Matt would, if Frank’s being honest. Nelson’s always been the dark horse of the team, with most people underestimating his intellect and skill, including Frank. “You got cleared by Psych; how?”

Frank stretches back and fishes around in his drawer, finding the small pill bottle and tossing it to Nelson by way of explanation.

The pills rattle around in the bottle as Nelson examines it. “You’re not taking these. You filled it almost a month ago and there’s gotta still be thirty in here.”

Frank shrugs. “Sell ‘em, mostly,” he rasps. “Big market for anti-psychotics after the Event; lots of folks just wantin’ to forget. As long as I keep refilling the prescriptions and tell Psych that they’re working, I still get assignments.”

Nelson just looks at him, shock warring with pity on his face and Frank has to bite back his instinctive, violent reaction to the expression. “Frank, you’re gonna get someone _killed_, man; what if you start hallucinating and kill an innocent person?”

“They’re not,” Frank starts and trails off, feeling the Devil’s cold eyes on him. He sips his water and takes a shuddering breath. “They’re not that kind of hallucinations. It’s only ever one person and yeah, I get pissed off and start yelling back, but I’m not gonna shoot. The only one it… the only one it wants to hurt is me.”

“It’s Matt, isn’t it?” Nelson asks softly, big dumb puppy-dog eyes in full effect. “Frank, I…”

“Save it,” Frank snaps, shooting him a scathing look. “It’s not him, not really. Just some sadistic version of Daredevil.”

Nelson’s quiet for once, sitting back in the chair and studying where the Devil’s lounging, as if he tries hard enough, maybe he could see the spectre too. He sighs and pushes his hair out of his eyes and rubs the dark circles under them. Frank knows Nelson’s suffered too, lost just as much as Frank has, but he rarely sees the effect of the trauma they’ve suffered.

“I get nightmares too,” Nelson says eventually, picking at a hangnail and seeming to deflate in front of Frank. “Sometimes of Matt and Karen, mostly of Marci. I can’t get her face out of my head when she… well, you know. I don’t think I ever will.”

Frank grunts, unsure what to say or how to say anything sympathetic without seeming like an asshole. He never had Nelson’s optimism, not when Maria and the kids died, certainly not when Matt did, and some sick part of him _enjoys _seeing the pain on Nelson’s face, knowing he’s hurting just as much as Frank is.

Maybe it’s not Matt under that Devil’s mask at all. Maybe it’s Frank.

“You’ve gotta start taking these, Frank,” Nelson continues, “There’s no shame in it – hell, I’ve got anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds I’m taking, and I still can’t sleep without Ambien, but it _helps, _man, you just gotta try.”

Snorting, Frank shoots Nelson a derisive look. “You’re worried about me shooting innocent people without meds and now you’re suggesting Ambien? Great idea, asshole; instead of sleepwalking I’ll just start sleep-murdering.”

“Or maybe you’d get better if you actually got some sleep without any night terrors?” Nelson counters, matching Frank’s glare with one of his own. “You’ve been falling asleep in random places, getting maybe two hours at most a day if you even sleep. I don’t know how you’ve managed to avoid falling asleep on the job and not wake up screaming and hitting things.”

Lots of caffeine, mostly, and a few black market pills to stimulate adrenaline production, but Nelson doesn’t need to know that. What matters is he stays awake on missions and doesn’t fuck ‘em up.

“At least start taking these, please, Frank,” Nelson says, tossing Frank the bottle of pills back. “Matt wouldn’t want you suffering like this.”

_It’s only fair, _the Devil whispers in Frank’s ear. _You’ll turn to ash too, in your own way, just like me._

Frank shakes his head and shoves the pills back into the drawer. “No. You deal with shit your own way, I’ll deal with mine.”

Nelson hesitates and licks his lips, suddenly apprehensive. “We have to try to move on, Frank. You’ve done it once before you can do it again! I have a support group on Wednesdays that you could come to, it’s a really great group of guys - “

“I did it by killing every last person associated with my family’s death last time, Nelson,” Frank snaps. “Who am I gonna kill this time? Hope the aliens come back? Maybe go up to the Avengers’ compound and take out Captain America for bringin’ this shit to us in the first place? It’s fuckin’ great you’ve got your group and that it helps, but it ain’t gonna help me.”

He’s escalating again, the rage prickling under his skin like a living thing, and he knows it’s not fair to Nelson to react like this, but he just can’t _stop._ Matt was the one thing on the planet that had held him together, from becoming a complete monster, and without him, Frank’s fraying, coming apart at the seams. And, God help him, Frank _wanted_ to be whole again, to exist for something other than dealing out death.

Maybe he’ll never get away from death. Maybe something in him had broken long before the Marines, before Kandahar, before getting shot in the head and losing his family. Maybe Matt was just putting a bandaid on a mortal wound and he’s just been bleeding out for years.

“Frank,” Nelson’s voice comes from closer than before, he’s moved from the chair to sit cross legged in front of Frank. “I’m asking this as your friend: please, take the meds. There’s no reason for you to suffer like this. You’re not alone, you’ve got me and, well sort of Madani, and Max and we care about you, man. Please.”

Frank jerks away from Nelson’s outstretched hand, his mind seizing the words “friend” and “care” out of his speech and latching onto them like Max on a springpole. Not again. He can’t have another innocent’s blood on his hands.

Scrambling to his feet, Frank lurches toward the closet and pulls on a black henley. He’s slept in his jeans and they’re clean enough, so he grabs his go bag from the back of the closet and the Kevlar vest from the floor.

“Wait, Frank, where are you going?”

Nelson knows something’s different this time and Frank can’t bring himself to care. Caring only gets people killed, and the world needs people like Foggy Nelson.

Frank hesitates as he grabs his keys to his truck, brushes his fingers over Max’s leash, but no. Where he’s going is no place for a dog. He grabs his keys and resolutely tunes out Nelson’s shouted protests.

Leaving the apartment has a finality to it that almost makes Frank turn back, his heart twisting at the thought of being truly alone. He sucks in a breath and yanks open the door to his truck, tossing the go bag into the back.

“Aw, Frank, you’ll never be alone,” the Devil’s voice drawls from the passenger seat. “You’ll always have me.”

Bile rises in the back of Frank’s throat, but he turns the engine on, shifts the car into drive, and speeds away from the small apartment with the Devil at his side.

He’s made his choice. Now he just has to live with it.


	4. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank hits bottom as a new vigilante surfaces in the fourth year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: canon typical violence for The Punisher, brief mention of suicidal thoughts. 
> 
> Thank you [Sevdrag](http://sevdrag.tumblr.com) for beta and letting me break your one (1) emotion. Again, this WILL have a happy ending, Frank just had to hit bottom before he can begin to heal (Endgame canon is just around the corner, guys, there's a reunion in sight). I want to thank you guys for your comments and support of this fic, it's very near to me as someone who has gone through these stages of grief and writing this has been a form of therapy. I appreciate every single comment and view, thank you all. This fic is set to be complete by the end of the month.
> 
> Direct your rage toward me on [tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)

There’ve been whispers ever since Frank crossed the border into Texas, hushed murmurs about a deadly force that’s been taking out drug cartels and traffickers. Some say there’s an army, skilled in guerrilla warfare and brutally efficient attacks; some say it’s only one man, an angel of death that the most superstitious claim is invincible. Whatever is behind the slaughter, they don’t ever miss and no one is ever left alive to tell the tale.

It’s a familiar story, of course, but the problem is Frank hasn’t killed anyone in Texas yet.

He’s not even sure what he’s doing in Texas, aside from evading Homeland Security and taking whatever hit jobs he can find that meet his code. He doesn’t like mercenary work, he much prefers to pick his targets himself, but it pays well and keeps him fed and helps keep his bloodlust in check.

The Devil loves it, of course. The further Frank slips toward being a monster, the happier the Devil seems to be.

Frank sips his whiskey and keeps an eye on the man three seats down who looks like he’s seen better days. The guy’s face is a mottled bruise, with one nasty slice down the side of his face that Frank can’t even begin to guess what caused it. Way too big for any of the knives he’s familiar with and too clean for a machete. It’s piqued his interest and the Devil is on high alert.

“I’m tellin’ you, I saw the bastard,” Broken Face hisses to his colleagues. “Gotta be the same guy Ramon’s team ran into in Tijuana; he’s gotta be a mutant or something, I’ve never seen anyone move like that.”

“Sounds familiar,” the Devil murmurs, his head tilted as they listen in. “I remember people saying the same thing about you, Frankie. Punisher wannabe, maybe? Think you’ve got fans?”

Frank doesn’t bother telling the Devil to shut up anymore; there’s no point. He taps at his burner phone of the week, bringing up the news articles he’s bookmarked and scans them for confirmation. The Feds are trying to keep everything quiet, but whoever the vigilante is, they’re not shy about leaving bodies around.

If he thinks about it, he’s almost got a grudging respect for the fucker. Similar MOs, if different choice in weaponry; hell, maybe once upon a time Frank would’ve offered them a drink and traded war stories.

Now though, they’re a target, if only because they’re now competition. The vigilante’s been drawing some unnecessary attention and more than a few people have thrown out the Punisher as a suspect, and Frank can’t have that. He still has more targets on his list to go through.

“Nah, bro, we gotta get outta here. I know what I fuckin’ saw and he’s gonna be comin’ after us,” Broken Face argues, his voice becoming shrill with his panic. “Forget the operation, forget the product, we’ve gotta move.”

“And we should adjust our plans for tonight,” the Devil says, his voice low with pleasure and anticipation. “Bottle of brandy’ll be there tomorrow; these guys are practically gift wrapped for us. It’s a good night to celebrate; it’s our anniversary after all.”

Frank’s hands tremble slightly as he brings the glass to his lips and drinks, the burn of the cheap liquor steadying his nerves. He does a mental inventory of what he has available in the truck – a much more limited arsenal than what he has squirreled away in his safehouse, but he did restock in the morning so he’s not completely unprepared.

“Let’s go,” the Devil purrs and Frank can never say no to that smile, that voice. Even in death, Matt has Frank wrapped around his finger.

He finishes his drink and nods at the bartender, leaving a few bills under the empty glass, his eyes tracking Broken Face and his goons as they push and shove at each other and make their way out of the bar.

His heartbeat steadies as he follows them to their vehicle, his KA-BAR hidden in his sleeve and his gun a comforting weight at the small of his back. The hunt always makes everything clearer – simpler, even. He’s made for this, born and raised for war, and it’s where he’s most at home; he could never have had a regular life with Maria, as a father and husband working a nine-to-five, or even with Matt, where he could live out his more violent tendencies under the guise of being a “hero.”

No, Frank Castle is good at one thing and one thing only: bringing death to every single person around him.

The first man doesn’t make a sound as Frank wraps an arm around him from behind and jams the KA-BAR up through the guy’s lower jaw and into his skull. Frank lets the body drop to the ground carelessly, his hand and forearm covered in blood as he falls into step behind Broken Face and the remaining two men.

He pulls his gun out of his waistband and cracks it across the closest goon’s skull, sending him sprawling in a spray of crimson. Broken Face and his last buddy don’t know what’s hit them and they’re yelling at Frank and each other, but the Devil’s laughter is the loudest of all.

Frank shoots the goon in the face – this close of a range the guy’s going to be lucky to have enough of a face to match his dental records – and feels the adrenaline kick in as his upper body is painted in blood. He makes a grab for Broken Face, slashing with his knife and catching him in the bicep as he slams his gun just under his jaw.

“What the fuck?” Broken Face screeches and Frank winces at the volume, digging the barrel of his gun harder into the guy’s flesh.

“His buddy’s still alive, Frank. He’s not happy, but he’s still with us. We leaving a witness?” the Devil asks from where he’s crouched over the man Frank pistol-whipped.

Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes and drags a yelping and cursing Broken Face over to where his buddy gasps and gurgles on the ground. He smashes the heel of his boot into the guy’s face until it resembles fresh hamburger and kicks the body aside. He hasn’t left a witness in years and doesn’t plan to start now.

“Please, you want money? I got money. Drugs? Women? I got whatever you need, pal, just say the word,” Broken Face babbles, showing all seven of his teeth in a crooked smile. His gaze darts to the corpses of his goons and his skin goes pale, his breathing shallow from pain and fear. “We can do business like two men, yeah?”

Ignoring him, Frank hauls him to the back of the alleyway where he’s parked his truck, shifting his gun from the guy’s neck to his back and avoiding streetlights. From a distance, they might pass as two drunk buddies, but anyone close enough’ll notice the gore that’s splashed over Frank’s skin like war paint.

Frank shoves him in the passenger seat of the truck, hurrying around to the driver’s side when the coast is clear. He pockets the gun as he settles in and pulls a coil of wire out from the glove compartment, blocking out Broken Face’s incessant attempts at bargaining. The wire is thin enough that if Broken Face pulls, he’s going to slice his wrists open; hopefully he’ll be smart enough not to do that until he gives Frank the location of their hideout.

“Where?” Frank rasps, his voice hoarse from disuse. Without Nelson or Max around, he goes days without speaking, the Devil filling in the silence with his endless whispering and accusations.

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, man, I was just grabbing some drinks with them, yo.”

The Devil’s eyes flash from the back seat and Frank lashes out, grabbing Broken Face by the wounded bicep and digging his thumb into the gash until the bastard’s howling and thrashing, blood dripping down his wrists as the wire cuts into them.

“Okay, okay, please, stop, _stop_! Take a left at the light and it’s off Central, about five miles down. Whole building’s ours, it’s got a light out at the front,” Broken Face sobs, whimpering as he tries to twist out of Frank’s grasp.

Frank grunts and lets him go. He’s seen enough of the guy’s type to know he’s likely telling the truth, and he has no intention of letting him live past getting them inside anyway. He starts the truck with a glance in the rearview, the sight of the silhouetted horns both calming and nauseating.

“Tell me what you saw,” Frank says after a few moments, when he gets sick of Broken Face’s snivelling.

Broken Face brings his bound hands up to wipe his nose and ends up smearing blood across his upper lip. “You’re not gonna let me live anyway.”

Good; at least he’s not under any illusions that Frank’s a good man.

“The rumour is his name’s Ronin,” Broken Face sighs after it’s clear Frank’s not going to speak further. “He’s like… I dunno, man, he looked like one of those Japanese swordsmen outta the movies, yo. Hood, big ass sword – s’what gave me these good looks, y’know?”

“A samurai?” the Devil muses from the back, leaning forward in Frank’s peripheral vision. “Mmm, it’s possible; I’ve had my share of ninja bullshit and that wound could realistically have come from a katana. What d’you think, Frankie? The Hand, maybe? A new Black Sky?”

Certainly realistic, though it’s not the Hand’s style. What motive would they have for leaving corpses all over the globe? No, whomever Ronin is, he doesn’t care about publicity.

“Guy’s one of them mutants, I bet. He don’t miss, man; you’re a dead man wanting to go up against him. Only reason I got out was pure fuckin’ luck,” Broken Face continues, oblivious to the Devil frowning and leaning on the back of the bench seat.

Superpowers or mutant powers or whatever the fuck Ronin has, Frank’s not worried. Death’s his birthright and it’s going to take more than some blackbelt ninja shit to take him down.

The building’s just as Broken Face described, and Frank drives past before circling the block. It’s quiet, the commercial buildings dark with not a soul to be seen. He parks the truck in the ditch behind the building, doing a quick ammo check and pulling his spray painted Kevlar vest on. He’s got his Glock with silencer, his trusty KA-BAR, and he digs through his weapons bag in the back before grabbing a TEC-9 and slinging his M249 SAW over his shoulder. Probably overkill for anyone else, but for Frank Castle, it’s just enough kill.

He yanks open the passenger side door of the truck and puts a bullet through Broken Face’s skull before he has a chance to move. The body lands with a thud in the damp grass and Frank kicks it into the ditch.

“Never fails to get me all hot and bothered like this, Frank,” the Devil says with a leer, falling into step beside Frank as they make their way silently toward the rear fire escape. “You liked it when I got violent too, when you thought I couldn’t see you drooling over me when my anger got the better of me.”

Frank says nothing, bile rising in his throat as he tries to narrow down his focus and block out the apparition at his side.

“Imagine if you hadn’t killed me. Would I have ended up as much of an animal as you?”

Screams erupt from inside the building and it takes Frank a second to realize it’s not the Devil fucking with his brain, but the familiar symphony of pain and death. He takes the metal steps of the fire escape two at a time and smashes in a window with the butt of his rifle.

The sight that greets him sends him back to Hell’s Kitchen, to the first massacres he dealt out after Maria’s death, only instead of gunshot wounds, the corpses are missing limbs in clean, smooth cuts. The acrid stench of blood and gore hits him and he can taste it in the back of his throat, stinging his nostrils and making his eyes water.

A shot rings out and Frank just barely dives to his left in time, drywall and shrapnel exploding out of the wall where his head had been a second before. He rolls and brings his rifle up, tracing the line of fire and shooting blindly, a wail of agony confirming his target.

He opens fire in the stairwell, his eyes darting to the open doorway two flights above him. Returning fire and muffled yelling follows and Frank tucks himself into the corner. A bad time to have forgotten a grenade or two, but he’s faced worse with less.

A man appears in the doorway, clutching the stump of his hand to his semi-automatic as he whirls around, clearly unsure which direction has the most danger. He opts, incorrectly, for the stairwell and Frank takes him out with a round to the chest as he moves smoothly up the steps and into the now open doorway.

The screams have subsided into quiet moans and the only movement is from a couple of mutilated bodies along the ground. Frank slings the rifle over his shoulder and quietly takes the TEC-9 from his tac jacket – it’s smaller, better for close quarters and quick to reload.

A soft voice reaches him, the words almost indistinguishable with the blood gurgling in the man’s throat, but the Devil recognizes the words instantly and stoops to pray, to complete the deceased’s last Our Father.

Matt likely would have done the same, Frank decides as his heart twists in his chest.

“You should go, Castle.”

Frank snaps his head up and readies his gun, eyes searching through the darkness and the occasional sparks of destroyed machinery and electronics. There’s a flash of steel and Frank can make out the shape of a man in the shadows, taller than Frank and clad in ornate black leather. The hood and mask obscures his features, his eyes hidden in shadow.

“My fight’s not with you,” the man continues as he moves in a slow arc, gore dripping from the tip of his blade.

“My fight’s with everyone,” Frank replies, lifting the TEC-9 and opening fire.

Broken Face hadn’t been kidding about Ronin’s possible superpowers. He moves at an almost inhuman speed, tucking and rolling under Frank’s fire and coming up with a vicious slash that sends Frank reeling and his Kevlar popping open as if it were flesh.

Frank fires again, scrambling backward to stay out of that blade’s deadly reach but for every foot he moves, Ronin seems to move a foot and a half. No one’s gotten the upper hand on the Punisher like this since Billy, since _Daredevil_, but Ronin’s style isn’t military and it isn’t a mishmash of various martial arts. It’s something else entirely, something natural and chaotic and vicious and has Frank quickly re-evaluating his plan of attack.

He tosses his gun aside and flips his KA-BAR into his hand, the worn grip as familiar to him as a lover’s touch. Diving forward, he can feel the breeze from the katana as it whistles above his head. Too close, _far_ too close.

What _is_ this guy?

Frank jams the knife into the closest spot he can reach – upper thigh, but nowhere fatal. Only a slight buckling of Ronin’s leg betrays that Frank’s scored a hit through the thick leather.

The blade stabs down and Frank rolls, barely avoiding a series of brutal attacks and managing to get his KA-BAR stuck in Ronin’s boot. With a roar like a wild animal, Frank surges to his feet, wrapping his arms around Ronin’s waist and sending them both crashing to the ground, the katana skittering away across the floor.

Ronin’s no slouch when it comes to hand-to-hand combat either. He grapples with Frank, finally hooking a leg around Frank’s and flipping them, landing a few solid punches to Frank’s kidneys that leave him seeing stars.

Frank headbutts him, which Ronin’s not prepared for. The mask twists and the hood falls back as Ronin overbalances, revealing a shock of blond hair shaved along the sides in a mohawk. The face is vaguely familiar but Frank can’t place it and doesn’t have time to think about it as Ronin flips to his feet in a move that would’ve made Matt proud.

The Devil stalks the shadows of the room, watching them but remaining silent.

Ronin’s fist catches Frank in the nose and the crunch of shattered cartilage is followed with a spray of blood that Frank chokes on. He spits in Ronin’s direction, bulling into him, every one of his punches caught and deflected.

“He’s just a man, Frank, just like hundreds, like _a thousand_ you’ve killed before. Take him out,” the Devil growls from the sidelines. “Do what you do best, my love.”

Frank bellows and unleashes a series of jabs but Ronin’s some sort of ghost, just out of reach every time.

“C’mon, Frank, is that all you’ve got?”

Ronin sinks his boot into Frank’s gut and Frank goes down hard, wheezing and gulping for oxygen, his vision darkening around the edges. Everything goes black as Ronin sends him sprawling with a roundhouse kick to the head and for a second, Frank thinks this is finally it, he can finally rest.

_“Get up, Frank! Do you really think you get off that easily? That you’ll get to the pearly gates and I’ll be there to welcome you?”_

Frank coughs and gags, spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the cool floor. He hears the scrape of metal, the soft _thud_ of Ronin’s footsteps as he approaches. There’s nothing he can do to defend himself; that kick did some damage and every breath Frank takes makes him lightheaded.

Red obscures Frank’s vision as he manages to open one eye, the crimson of the Devil’s mask all he can see. “You don’t deserve a quick death, Frank, that’s why you haven’t done it yourself. You know this is where you belong.”

“Please,” Frank hears himself whisper as if from a distance.

Ronin pauses, the cold steel of his blade nicking Frank’s throat.

“This is Hell, Frank. This is _my_ domain, and this is where you want to be.”

More blood fills his mouth and Frank hacks, his whole body shuddering with the effort. “Please,” he repeats, trying to find Ronin’s face but the Devil’s face is all he can see.

“Frank…”

“Kill me,” Frank gasps out, shutting his eye and leaning into Ronin’s sword. “Please, I’m beggin’ you. Just kill me.”

The Devil’s face shifts and it’s _Matt_ in his mind’s eye, his gaze alarmingly clear and focused, his eyes boring into Frank’s very soul.

Ronin is still for what seems like an eternity and then the blade moves from Frank’s neck and Frank’s heart sinks and the Devil laughs.

“You don’t fit my code,” Ronin says finally, his boots scuffing the floor as he turns, the sound echoing through the chilling silence of the building as he walks away.

Frank manages to turn onto his stomach and onto one elbow as his stomach rebels, blood and bile and God knows what else coming up and searing his throat. He collapses, managing to keep himself out of the mess somehow, hot tears streaming down his face as he sobs into the darkness.

~*~*~*~

_“Mornin’, Sunshine,” Frank drawls as Matt staggers out of the bedroom in Columbia University sweatpants and socks. “Josie’s Special beat your ass again?”_

_Matt makes a noise that’s somewhere between a snort and a groan and shuffles into the kitchen, one hand tracing the countertop and the other groping for Frank. He makes a pleased sound when Frank takes a step back from the stove, and buries his face between Frank’s shoulderblades. _

_Checking the omelette, Frank lifts his arm and tucks Matt into his side, presses a kiss to his hair, and lets the scent and feel of the man drown his senses for a moment. _

_“Didn’t think you’d be back so quickly,” Matt murmurs, wrapping his arms around Frank’s waist and sniffing the air appreciatively. “You’re using my recipe too.”_

_“Yeah, well, it’s the only goddamn thing you can cook and they’re better than mine, so I had to up my game somehow.”_

_Humming, Matt kisses Frank’s cheek and pulls back, his hands trailing just under Frank’s shirt to ghost at the skin below. “What’s the news from Micro?” he asks, stretching and rolling his shoulders, drawing Frank’s gaze to the muscular expanse of skin._

_The sizzling from the pan makes Frank return his attention to the omelettes and he turns the heat down and grabs a couple of plates from the cabinet. “He’s got shit. Whatever it was the other day is getting locked down, he can’t even get in touch with Madani,” he replies, flipping the omelettes over and checking them carefully. _

_“I don’t like this, Frank,” Matt sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I can’t even get in touch with my Avengers contacts.”_

_Switching the gas off, Frank slides the omelettes onto the plates, sprinkles some scallions and drizzles a bit of soy sauce on top, and pours two glasses of orange juice and turns the coffee maker on. He sets one plate down in front of Matt and hands him the juice glass, watching him carefully. “They’re not exactly the most reliable and this ain’t the first time aliens have crashed the city.”_

_“I just have a bad feeling about it. That whole mess ended too quickly,” Matt says, sipping the juice and picking up his fork. “This smells amazing though; did you make the dashi?”_

_A pleased flush runs through Frank at the compliment. He’s always loved cooking for his family, both before and after the war. Frank Jr was a picky kid and it became a game of Frank’s to find new things for him to try and eat, and it turned out Matt had a similar palate. He might not be great at outwardly expressing his affection, but he knows food, and he knows Matt would probably live off tv dinners and take out if it weren’t for someone cooking for him. _

_“Yeah, I figured you’d give me shit if I used pre-made shit,” Frank replies, watching Matt cut off a bite with his fork and spear it. _

_The sound that comes out of Matt’s mouth is almost sinful as he tastes the omelette, and Frank his to force down his instinctive reaction to it. “This is delicious, Frank. Might even be better than mine, holy shit.”_

_Warmth fills Frank’s chest as he watches Matt devour the omelette. He takes a bite of his own and he has to admit, it’s spot on, the Asian flavours powerful but not overwhelming. It’s out of his comfort zone, but if that gets this response out of Matt, he’ll certainly try his hand at a few more dishes he’s had in mind._

_Smiling, he ducks his head and tucks into his breakfast, heart happy as Matt finishes his omelette and attempts to steal bits off Frank’s plate. _

_Max hops off the couch, tail wagging and nose twitching as he trots over to lay under Matt’s chair. Little asshole knows who’ll feed him scraps, that’s for sure._

_Frank fends off Matt’s attempts at theft with his fork, forcing a scowl onto his face even though he knows there’s no hiding the flush of his cheeks or the beat of his heart. He’s still troubled by Micro’s news, but it at least appears the threat is gone from New York and the United States for now, and anything beyond that ain’t his problem anymore. _

_“I can just make you another fuckin’ omelette, Red, you sonofabitch,” he laughs as Matt sweeps his fork away with his knife and darts in with his own. _

_Matt grins triumphantly and pops the piece of omelette into his mouth. “Tastes better this way.”_

_“Fuckin’ lawyer advocating for petty theft, I see how it is.”_

_Rising to his feet, Matt moves around to Frank’s side of the counter and palms his cheek, his fingers tracing the neatly trimmed beard Frank’s had ever since Matt voiced his appreciation. He tilts Frank’s head up and warm lips brush once, twice, over Frank’s before pressing in harder, Matt’s tongue licking into Frank’s mouth with exaggerated slowness. _

_Heat pools low in Frank’s abdomen and he lets his fork drop to his plate, his hands settling on Matt’s waist. The hightop chair wobbles a little on the uneven leg as Frank shifts, turning so Matt can move between his legs. _

_Frank returns the kiss with equal intensity, his tongue sliding against Matt’s as they breathe into each other’s mouths. There’s nothing rushed about it, no real direction or end goal, but Frank shivers with the slow burn of it and the weight of the emotions he’s being swamped with. _

_Matt’s thumbs rub over the short-cropped hair by Frank’s ears and slide into the longer hair on top, his nails scratching gently at Frank’s skull. “You’re too good to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice smooth and rich as the best whiskey Frank’s ever tasted. “Who’d have thought the Punisher would have a domestic streak?”_

_More warmth, a rush of dopamine, and Frank realizes this is it. He never thought he’d feel this again, not after Maria, but Matt’s wormed his way into Frank’s heart alongside her, filling in all the nooks and crannies and piecing the broken bits and gaps back together. _

_Frank’s absolutely gone on Matt Murdock, and somehow, the acknowledgement doesn’t hurt anymore, just merely stokes the fire in his heart and warms his soul. _

_He swallows, licks his lips, runs his hands along Matt’s bare back and traces the scars there. “I like taking care of the people I love,” he says, his voice coming out barely more than a whisper._

_Matt freezes, his head tilting as he listens to something only he can hear. One hand leaves Frank’s hair and drops to his chest, pressing lightly against the black henley. “Frank… You’re serious,” he says after what feels like an eternity._

_Frank’s gaze never wavers, eyes locked onto Matt’s, hoping Matt can at least feel the weight even if he can’t see it. “As a heart attack. I don’t joke about shit like that, Matt, you know that.”_

_The soft lips are back on Frank’s and Matt’s laughing into his mouth, a delighted, joyful sound and Frank can feel Matt’s smile, wide and uncontained. Arms wrap around Frank’s neck and he can feel the steady beat of Matt’s heart against his own, and he can’t think of a more perfect moment for the second stage of his life. _

_Matt pulls back with a sweep of his tongue against Frank’s upper lip and rests his forehead against Frank’s, still grinning infectiously. “I love you too, Frank,” he says, alternating his words with light kisses over Frank’s face. “I didn’t want to say anything and have you think I was trying to pressure you so I never…” He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. “I know this is hard for you and I’d have been happy with whatever you were comfortable with.”_

_Embarrassed, Frank tries to look away but Matt just kisses him again. “Didn’t want to make it a Hallmark moment, Red; just wanted to let you know,” he says gruffly, but it’s an obvious act, belied by the dumb smile he knows is on his face and the flush to his cheeks._

_The warmth fades a little as Matt steps back, swearing as he nearly trips over Max who has wandered over to see what all the fuss is about. “Just for that, you can make me another omelette.”_

_Frank finishes the last bites of his breakfast, reluctant to replace the taste of Matt’s kisses with the omelette, but he’s floating so high he’d probably agree to anything Matt requests at this point. Swallowing, he brushes past Matt and Max and pulls the eggs back out of the fridge, doing a quick inventory of ingredients. _

_He has enough dashi left over for one more omelette and does a quick taste test. “C’mere and supervise,” he says, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder._

_Behind him, Matt clears his throat and makes a strange noise._

_“You okay?” Frank asks, turning and frowning as Matt winces and rubs his stomach. “Eat too fast?”_

_Matt’s expression is off a little bit and he nods, confusion flickering across his face. “Yeah, must have. Maybe it didn’t mix well with whatever lighter fluid Josie’s putting into her house special.”_

_“Want me to make you one later?” Frank sets the eggs back in the carton and walks over to where Matt’s standing with one hand on the countertop. “Omelettes are usually good hangover food.” _

_The weird look doesn’t leave Matt’s face and he’s mid-nod when his eyes go wide and he makes a wild grab for Frank, hands like a vice on Frank’s forearms and the sudden weight overbalancing them both. _

_Frank manages to cushion Matt’s head as they fall to the floor. He scrambles to his knees, heart pounding in his chest at the utter panic that’s on Matt’s face, an expression he’s never seen on the Man Without Fear. _

_“Matt, Matt, talk to me, what’s going on?”_

_The horror grows on Matt’s face, one hand patting up Frank’s arm to his face, his eyes wild. “My legs… Frank, I can’t feel my legs. What’s happening, Frank?!”_

_“Your…” Frank’s voice trails off as he looks down and Matt’s legs are **gone**, there’s nothing there but ash, his torso slowly crumbling like sand, and Frank’s just gaping, fear gripping his spine in a way he hasn’t felt since that day at the park with Maria and the kids._

_“Frank, I can’t, **Frank!**” Matt’s yelling now, breath coming in short gasps, his hands holding onto Frank like a lifeline as Max whines and barks near their heads. _

_Frank can’t speak, the words frozen in his throat as he watches Matt fade to nothing in front of his eyes. He holds Matt’s face, feeling the hand on his forearm break apart into dust. _

_The remaining hand brushes just below his eyes, wiping away the tears that are welling up and threatening to spill. _

_“You’re crying,” Matt whispers. “Frank, why’re you-“_


	5. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank returns home and the Avengers win a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: cathartic tears.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking through this fic! You may have noticed I've upped the chapter count - this is the final chapter of the fic, the sixth will be an epilogue set six months after this chapter detailing how everyone has been adjusting to everything that's happened. I promised ya'll a happy ending and I really hope this delivers.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)

It takes Frank another four months to return to New York. He doesn’t remember how he got out of the office building and to his truck after the fight with Ronin, but somehow he managed to make it out not only alive, but undetected by the authorities. The week spent at the safehouse is a haze of pain and berating by the Devil because he _should_ have won that fight, hands down.

He recovers slowly. His ribs finally knit, his cheekbone and nose heal, it no longer hurts to take deep breaths. He’s not entirely sure he wants the Devil to leave yet though, as much as he knows he needs to let him go. The idea of not having Matt around, even a dark, cruel version of him, is terrifying. The Devil may just be Frank’s own destructive subconscious, but it’s all he has left.

His phone didn’t make it out of the fight with Ronin, so he packs up his truck and erases all trace of his safehouse, unsure of where else to go except back to New York. Ronin’s words made as much of an impact as his boots had and Frank needs to know why he, out of all people, was spared. What about Ronin’s code differed from Frank’s? What about him did Ronin feel was worth keeping alive?

The Devil had been silent and furious, but as they near New York, he’s become increasingly agitated. He croons into Frank’s ear from the back of the truck, his words striking every one of Frank’s fears and causing him to pull off the highway more than once, intent on turning right back around.

He can’t waste the chance he’s been given though. He’d seen too much of himself in Ronin’s eyes, too much pain, too much grief, and if he wants Frank to live, then Frank’s going to take the opportunity.

“You don’t even know he’s still here,” the Devil mutters as Frank parks the truck across the street from the old apartment, his horned head tilted as if listening to Frank’s pounding heartbeat. “He could be dead for all you know. You left him here with no protection.”

Frank watches the front door, looking for any sign that Nelson or Max are still living there and failing to find one. Even the car in Nelson’s usual parking space is different.

“Probably moved away. He never liked you, never trusted you; he only tolerated you because of me. My responsibility became his burden and I don’t blame him for deciding to make it so you can’t find him again.”

Irritation pricks along Frank’s spine and he glares in the rearview mirror. “And if I had stayed he’d have been killed, right? That’s how this song usually goes. Why the change in tune, shithead?”

The Devil leans back, shrugging one shoulder, his mouth thinning into a frown. “It all ends the same way, Frank; the way it happens is irrelevant. Bottom line is Foggy is better off without you.”

He’s nervous, Frank realizes with a start. Never, in nearly five years, has the Devil been nervous.

His decision made, Frank gets out of the truck and slams the door in the Devil’s face, the satisfaction worth it even though he knows it won’t stop him. He adjusts his sweatshirt over the Glock at his belt and flips the hood up over his hat. If he doesn’t do it now, he never will, and he’ll get drawn back into the Devil’s Hell.

The barking reaches his ears first, the glorious, deep bark of a pissed off pit bull, and Frank almost breaks down right there on the doorstep before he can even knock. Nelson’s voice is the second thing he hears, yelling for Max to be quiet and go to his crate, his footsteps loud and clear as he moves toward the door.

Frank’s hand is awkwardly raised when the door swings open and Foggy Nelson stares in abject shock in front of him.

Max, the amazing animal he is, has no such qualms about the reunion and barrels into Frank’s legs, nearly knocking him over and shrieking and warbling and leaping into the air to lick Frank’s face. He’s a little plumper than Frank remembers, the lateral muscles no longer visible over his ribcage, and he’s a little greyer in the muzzle and around the eyes, but he’s no less energetic and happy.

Kneeling, Frank almost collapses on the front step, wrapping his arms around the ecstatic dog and kissing the top of his head, tears burning at the corners of his eyes that he has to blink away rapidly.

“Holy shit,” Nelson whispers, still holding the door, his face pale with shock. “Frank… Jesus Christ, Frank, what… I don’t even know what to _ask_, holy shit.”

Frank looks up, meeting Nelson’s eyes and managing to hold his gaze through Max’s thorough washing of his cheeks and face. “Plausible deniability,” he says, the joke sounding weak even to his ears.

But Nelson, the forgiving idiot he is, sniffles a moment before pulling Frank to his feet and slapping him on the back, holding him tight in a way no one has since the Event. Frank doesn’t realize until then just how starved for touch he’s been, not just for Matt’s warmth, but for Karen’s gentle punches and hugs, for Micro’s bear hugs that he _knows_ Frank hates, for Curt’s solid clasps to his shoulder. He’s missed human contact.

“Welcome home, Frank, buddy,” Nelson laughs over Frank’s shoulder. “Welcome home.”

~*~*~*~

The Devil is _furious_.

He’s been ranting and raving since they left Homeland Security’s Psych office, obscuring Frank’s vision enough that he has Nelson pull over so he can climb into the back seat and as far away from the steering wheel as he can get.

Nelson’s trying to fill the silence, babbling about work and the latest news, anything to keep Frank grounded in reality and drown out the Devil’s venomous tirade. He makes it across the city in almost record time, swinging through the pharmacy drive through so Frank won’t be left unattended with his own thoughts and enraged spirit.

“It’s a band aid, Frank; you know nothing can get me to leave you, my love,” the Devil whispers as Frank rocks slightly back and forth and holds Max tight. “I’ll never leave you. I’m all you really have.”

“Just another minute till we’re home, Frank,” Nelson’s voice layers over the Devil’s, his earnest concern grounding Frank in reality. He could’ve pushed for Frank to take the pills immediately, or held them safely in the front of the truck where the Devil couldn’t sabotage them, but he’s trusted Frank with both the pills and the decision to take them.

They arrive back at the apartment and Nelson goes off to shower without a word, leaving Frank to sit on the couch and stare at the innocuous looking pill bottle on the coffee table.

Max hops up on the couch and curls up against Frank’s thigh, his grizzled head a solid, comforting weight.

“You take those and I’m gone, Frank,” the Devil says quietly from Frank’s right side. He’s stopped his insults and barbs, instead just leaning back in the corner of the room with a neutral expression. “Can you really make it without me? Do you even want to? That’s why I’m here, right? Because you’re not strong enough without me at your side.”

Frank bites the inside of his lip until he tastes blood, the Devil hovering just on the edges of his peripheral vision. He doesn’t _know _if he’s strong enough without Matt and the thought of letting him go completely is…

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his face. It’s one thing to know what the healthiest choice is and another fucking thing to actually bite the bullet and _do _it.

“You really gonna kill me again, Frank?”

The voice is softer this time, a lover’s gentle caress. Frank opens his eyes and Matt’s sitting next to him on the couch, legs tucked up underneath him, one arm thrown over the back of the couch. He’s got a day’s worth of scruff, his gaze off to Frank’s side, the old Columbia sweatpants as rumpled as Frank remembers.

“I’m sorry,” Frank says hoarsely, his hands trembling and a tear sliding down his cheek. “I know you’re up there, maybe you’re watching me, and I hope it’s everything you were told it would be. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Red; it kills me every fuckin’ day because I should’ve gone instead of you.”

He reaches out for the pill bottle, fumbling with it for a moment with weak fingers. “Tell your fuckin’ God he screwed up, okay? He made a big goddamned mistake,” he whispers, wiping uselessly at his cheeks as the pills rattle around in the bottle. “Find Maria for me? Tell her… shit, I dunno. Tell her I love her and I tried my best and that I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man she thought I was. Tell my kids I love them and I don’t go a fuckin’ day without thinking about them, that I wanted to see them grow up and be better than their old man.”

Matt says nothing, just tilts his head in a way that makes Frank’s heart twist and shatter even more.

Taking a shuddering breath, Frank opens the bottle and taps one out into his hand, staring down at the tiny white pill. Such a simple thing in theory, but a huge step toward _living_ again.

He’d like to think Matt would want that.

“I fuckin’ love you, Matt, I want you to know that. I didn’t deserve you, but I’m glad I got to have you.” He looks back up, remembering how Matt felt against him, how he tasted, the rich, masculine scent of him. “I’m sorry and I’ll always love you.”

The pill is bitter in his mouth and he swallows it dry, collapsing back against the couch and shutting his eyes. He lets Max press into him and lick away his tears, the old gamedog keeping Frank’s inner demons at bay.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears Nelson settle into the overstuffed armchair and switch the television on, the running commentary of the Jets game filling the silence.

By the time Frank wakes up, hours later, Nelson’s snoring lightly in the armchair, the glow of the tv the only light in the room, and the Devil and Matt are gone.

~*~*~*~

Frank manages to land a job in construction once again. It’s a small group of guys, all of them veterans, and they focus on rebuilding communities destroyed by The Event. It’s good, honest work, and Frank enjoys having the banter of other soldiers around, and the burn of his muscles after a long day.

The Devil only makes a few appearances on Frank’s bad days; he learned the hard way that alcohol does _not_ mix with his meds, and Nelson’s been careful to keep the apartment free of anything that could cause an adverse reaction. As a precaution, Frank keeps most of his arsenal locked away, usually just going out with the knife he bought after losing his trusty KA-BAR and his Glock if he’s feeling particularly on edge.

He feels Matt’s loss more now that the Devil’s gone. The spaces in between are gaping, yawning chasms, the silence deafening. He still misses Maria, will _always_ miss Maria, and he still watches parents with their children at the park and wonders if Lisa would’ve gotten a basketball scholarship, if Frank Jr would have decided if he wanted to be a firefighter or police officer after all. Matt though… Matt was the other side of the same coin, both of them forged in flames. His loss will take longer and Frank’s not sure if he’ll ever get past it.

Nelson’s still religiously going to that support group on Wednesday nights. He’s brought it up a few times to Frank once it became apparent the meds had started to work and Frank snorts and brushes it off every time. Talking about his feelings ain’t gonna bring his family back from the dead and he doesn’t see the point in it.

He’s getting his boots on to bring Nelson out to the group, the news playing some vague sports highlights in the background. Something’s been up with the transmission of Nelson’s shitbox Civic and Frank’s been stuck playing chauffeur for two days while he hunts down the parts to fix it. It’s a pain in the ass, but as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Nelson’s grown on him, like the little brother he never wanted.

Not that he’d ever tell him, of course.

Frank’s about to grab his keys when the news abruptly changes, the reporter’s voice tense with alarm. He turns to stare in disbelief at the tv, a cold chill running down his spine as he takes in the words.

_“Reports from all over the city are pouring in of people suddenly appearing in the middle of the street, in businesses, and in homes out of thin air –“_

“Nelson!” Frank yells, his heart pounding in his chest. “Get your ass down here, _now!_”

A curse from upstairs is followed by a series of thumps as Nelson comes crashing down the stairs. “Jesus, Frank, please tell me Max didn’t knock over a candle again or get into the trash, I can’t deal with two of those in one…” his voice trails off as he comes to stand beside Frank and takes in what’s happening on the news.

_“This just in from the Avengers’ base, sources are reporting an extraterrestrial force gathering in upstate New York, no word so far from Captain America, whose team has gone silent on all-“_

The station cuts out abruptly, with nothing but static remaining.

Wasting no time, Frank dashes over to the closet, fumbling with the passcode to the cabinet where his weapons are stored. He grabs his TEC-9 and, after a moment’s hesitation, his spray-painted Kevlar vest and throws it on, fastening it as he yells for Nelson to get to the truck.

Aliens again, and if they’re going after the Avengers’ base, Frank would bet his entire life’s savings that they’re the same aliens that invaded five years ago.

His blood is on fire in his veins as he opens the door, following a babbling Nelson. It’s chaos in the streets, with people _everywhere_, more people than Frank had remembered seeing in one place for a long time. The police are out in riot gear, waving people back toward their homes and yelling for everyone to stay calm, as if that’s even remotely realistic.

One cop catches sight of Frank and orders him to drop his weapon. For a tense moment, Frank’s not sure which of them are going to move first, but it’s Nelson who dashes in between them, yelling to the cop in legalese and coming up with some bullshit story on the spot about needing to get upstate to the Avengers’ base.

The cop has none of it, of course; Frank doesn’t know of a single New York cop that wouldn’t recognize his painted skull anywhere, but he does take a step backward and lowers his weapon.

“Sir,” the cop says, and Frank’s not sure if he’s addressing him or Nelson, “even if I could authorize you to leave, there’s no way you’d make it upstate. Every road out of the city is blocked, the military’s been called in. The Avengers are on their own.”

No, they _couldn’t_ be on their own, that’s what got everyone into this shit in the _first _place and Frank’s hands are trembling on his gun, his vision blurring, a haunting laugh at the back of his mind.

“We need you to go back inside and take cover until we know more. We haven’t seen anything like this since…”

_“Since the night the world ended, my love. We’ve come full circle.”_

~*~*~*~

Frank’s hands twitch and he gets off the couch, starting to pace again so he doesn’t crawl out of his own skin.

Nelson’s been on the phone with Homeland Security for nearly an hour, and it’s been six since the aliens started their invasion. It feels horrifically like those first few days, with Nelson yelling on the phone and nearly pulling his hair out and Frank quietly imploding.

“Wait… what? Are you serious?”

Frank looks up as Nelson abruptly freezes and Max pads over to lean against Frank’s legs.

“You’re not… No fucking way. No, no, I know, I can’t… Yeah, of course. We can be there in fifteen,” Nelson says, his voice faint, all the colour draining from his face as he turns away from Frank. “Thanks, Madani.”

The words take a moment to form in Frank’s throat as he watches Nelson stare numbly at his phone. “What’s goin’ on, Nelson?”

The Avengers have lost. The aliens are on their way. The apocalypse is coming for the second time.

Nelson’s still just standing there, frozen. Frank’s never seen him at a loss for words; even on his worst days, he was ranting and raving and running himself to exhaustion on caffeine in his search for answers.

The Devil’s quiet again, beaten back by the Ativan and Frank’s quiet litanies. Small miracles, at least.

“Nelson,” Frank tries again, reaching out for his arm. “Hey, Foggy. Get it together, man; what’s happening?”

The use of the nickname seems to break Nelson out of his trance and he starts slightly, looking at Frank with wide eyes. “They’re… uh, Madani. She wants us to meet her at the midtown station in fifteen. They won, Frank,” he says solemnly. “The Avengers won. The aliens are gone, we’re still trying to figure out exactly what happened but… Frank, there’s been a weird side effect.”

The chill is back. “What kind of side effect, what’re you sayin’?”

Nelson shakes his head. “Let’s meet with Madani, okay? She says you can bring whatever Pete Castiglione legally owns for firearms if it makes you feel better.”

It doesn’t really make Frank feel any better, but he arms himself to the teeth anyway, throwing two rifles into the back of the truck and kissing Max on the head as they lock the apartment.

National Guard troopers wave them through various checkpoints, directing them to a spot surrounded by New York State troopers, local PD, and more National Guard. There’s a decent crowd of civilians gathered by the station, some of them Frank recognizes from around the neighbourhood. His co-worker, Glenn, is there, and they exchange terse nods.

“Nelson, Cast… Castiglione,” Madani’s voice calls through the crowd, and the agent herself appears a second later, complete with a full squad of HomeSec officers. Her face is drawn tight; whatever’s going on clearly has her rattled and that doesn’t give Frank much comfort. “Thank you for coming. We’ve been given the all clear to release travel, but interstate is still restricted at this time. I don’t have a timeline for you for when that’ll clear, we’re still trying to reach Captain Rogers and get an official report.”

Captain…? “Wait, Captain America? What the fuck’s happening, Madani? Why’re we here if we haven’t heard from the Avengers?” Frank demands, his fingers still twitching at his belt, feeling vulnerable without a gun in his hand, but a lot of these people are _civilians, _what the fuck is going on?

Madani shoots him an exasperated look, turning to glance at the bus pulling up in front of them. “We have contact there, but no full debrief as of yet. All we know is they won and this,” she waves her hand in the bus’ direction, “is the result. These people needed a place to go, so we’ve contacted as many family members or friends as we can.”

People? Frank moves in front of Foggy in a defensive position, pulling his knife out of his belt and hiding it up his sleeve.

The first person off the bus is a woman. She’s older than Frank, perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, the sunlight catching the gold highlights of her hair and matching her bright sundress. Pausing, she scans the crowd, gasping when Glenn makes a sound like a wounded animal.

Frank’s ready for a fight; he whirls, trying to see what’s hit Glenn… only to freeze in bewilderment when Glenn catches the woman in his arms, sobbing openly into her hair.

More people are coming off the bus now, the cries of the crowd getting louder. The military steps closer to the barricade, yells for order, for people to come one at a time, but there’s no use, the tide has broken.

“Foggy Bear?”

Frank’s head snaps back to the bus, feeling the blood drain out of his face as he stares at the ghost in the sharp pinstripe waistcoat. She looks the exact same as she did the last time Frank saw her, over five years ago, promising to not get Matt too drunk at Josie’s during a celebration of a years-long case finally coming to a close.

“Marci,” Nelson whispers, as if he says her name too loud, she might disappear into ash again. There are tears in his eyes, dripping steadily down his face, five years of grief and heartache etched into every line.

But there’s something there this time. A small spark of hope.

“Foggy!” Marci yells, running, vaulting over the barrier and into Foggy’s arms, kissing him breathless and holding him close as he sobs.

Frank feels like he’s having an out of body experience, everything seeming distant. The colours are too vibrant, the voices too loud; it’s as if everything is flooding in to fill the silence in between.

A hand slips into his and Frank jerks back violently, one arm instinctively coming up to swing at his opponent, but he stops dead, transfixed, as he stares into the smiling, happy face of Karen Page.

“Karen,” Frank gasps as she ducks under his arms and ignores the knife he’s now holding. “Karen… what’re you…? How…?”

“We’re still figuring that out,” Karen says, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her arms around him. “God, Frank, you look like shit.”

Frank barks a laugh, a weak, hoarse thing that’s covered in the dust of five years’ of trauma. Tears well up in his eyes and he returns the hug, burying his nose in her hair. God, she even smells the same, feels the same in his arms, and this has to be some sort of dream. This can’t be real.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Karen says, her voice catching in her throat as she kisses his cheek. “I promise, Frank, it’s okay. It’s me. There’s someone else with us that you’ll want to see, though.”

The tapping is a background noise as he focuses on Karen being alive in his arms, but as it draws closer, it’s all Frank can hear, the din of the crowd fading to a low murmur, his friends’ voices lowering like the stereo in his truck.

He’s vaguely aware of Karen stepping out of his embrace and moving over to Foggy when he spots him: the ghost who’s starred in every one of Frank’s dreams, the phantom he said goodbye to months before.

Matt Murdock stands just on the other side of the barricade, his cane tapping the street in front of him, his head tilted and eyes half shut as he listens through hundreds of heartbeats. The ratty Columbia sweatpants still have a soy sauce stain above the knee and he’s wearing an NYPD hoodie that’s way too big for him and stark white tennis shoes he never would have been caught dead wearing.

Frank’s hallucinating again. He has to be.

His legs move forward of their own accord, the knife dropping out of nerveless fingers. He pushes aside the trooper who meets him at the barricade; the only sound he can hear is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

A slow smile crosses Matt’s face as he turns his head in Frank’s direction, wide and as brilliant as the midday sun, the same smile Frank can remember feeling pressed against his lips that day so long ago. He moves forward with purpose, reaching the barricade, his arms stretched out for Frank like they have so many times in Frank’s nightmares.

This time though, when Frank meets Matt halfway, he only meets solid muscle and warm flesh.

Matt’s taste explodes across Frank’s tongue, achingly familiar, as they embrace over the barricade. He’s _here_ and he’s flesh and blood and _alive_ and Frank’s grabbing at him, hauling him as close as he possibly can, tears flowing freely down his face.

The dam holding back all of Frank’s repressed emotions is shattered and his legs give out, his knees crashing to the pavement as Matt ducks under the barricade and wraps Frank in his arms. He takes several gasping breaths into Matt’s neck, his lips finding Matt’s pulse point – steady and _real_ and Frank can taste the salt of his skin and he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Frank,” Matt’s whispering, gentle and confident in Frank’s ear. “It’s really me, I promise. I’m here. I love you, Frank.”

The world comes back in technicolour and surround sound. Nelson’s yelling behind them, reaching out and patting Matt’s cheek and hugging _both_ of them, and that’s what does it for Frank.

This can’t be a hallucination.

He doesn’t let go of Matt, but reaches out with one arm to tuck Karen in at his side, Nelson and Marci taking up the space beside Matt. They’re all here, his _family._

“Matt,” Frank murmurs, pressing his lips to Matt’s and resting their foreheads together, uncaring that he’s blubbering away and likely full of snot and tears because he can finally, for the first time in five years, breathe again. “_Matt._”

“I know, Frank. I know. We’re home.”


	6. Epilogue: Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months post-Battle For Earth, Frank and Matt attend a Christmas party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap, folks! Thank you to everyone who has followed this fic and yelled at me about it, I'm really, really beyond thrilled that you guys like it. Have a fluff filled epilogue, but remember: trauma doesn't heal with a Snap. Trauma lurks and stays with you and manifests itself in every aspect of your life, but the road to healing is worth it. Everyone's road is different and I thank you all for being here with me with this fic, as it's been part of my road with grief. Special thanks to Sevdrag for yelling with me and letting me yell and for the BDBD server for helping me sprint this out. I love you all.
> 
> Yell with me on [tumblr!](http://feathers-and-cigarettes.tumblr.com)

Epilogue: Healing

The first few weeks were rough, with Frank sometimes not sleeping at all, simply watching over Matt and Max or getting up to pace when he felt the pressure building in his head. Frank woke up screaming on the nights he _did _sleep, despite the medication, and Matt ended up with a couple of nasty bruises trying to calm him down.

It was difficult, reconciling that Frank had lived five years of horror and yet for Matt, it had been mere seconds. Matt didn’t push though, just held Frank close until the trembling subsided and murmured soft nothings into his ear. On rare nights they fell asleep tangled with each other, with Frank’s head pillowed over Matt’s heart, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic beat.

Two months after The Blip, as Karen had taken to calling The Event’s reversal, Matt decided it was time for Daredevil to patrol once more. Frank had come out of the bathroom, saw Matt in the full crimson leather suit and helmet, and bolted back into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before his lunch came back up.

Matt went back to the old black suit after that.

Six months after The Blip, Frank’s begun to breathe a little easier.

He’s watching Matt dig around in their shared closet as he lounges on the bed with Max curled up and snoring loudly on the couch in the other room. They’ve had to buy all new clothes and while Frank tries to keep them organized to make Matt’s life easier, Matt remains just as much of a disaster as he was five years ago.

“Y’know if you put shit back where you found it, you wouldn’t show up late all the time,” Frank chuckles, watching as Matt selects a sweater, runs his fingers along the front and arms, then throws it over his shoulder.

“I don’t remember you complaining the last time we were late,” Matt quips, shooting Frank a grin that sends heat all along Frank’s spine.

“My therapist wasn’t as thrilled.”

Matt, seemingly giving up on the closet, prowls over to the bed, crawling up until he’s nose to nose with Frank. He ghosts his lips over Frank’s until Frank chases him, groaning appreciatively at the resulting kiss. “Speaking of therapists, what did you guys decide about the party?”

Frank hesitates, kissing Matt again to buy some time. It’s his last chance to back out; Matt wouldn’t question his decision and his therapist agreed it was his choice. He’s been better lately, his medication dosage’s been reduced and he’s sleeping better, going as long as ten days without night terrors. The hallucinations have been mostly auditory now, and then only on exceptionally bad days and only when Matt’s at the office or in court.

He knows this is something he has to get over though, and what better way to test it than a Nelson, Murdock, and Page sponsored Christmas party at their favourite dive bar? Worst case scenario he walks the five blocks back to their apartment and spends the evening watching Die Hard with Max. He almost made it through Pantsgiving but Marci had turned on the news and Frank couldn’t deal with watching the tribute to Tony Stark and had to retreat to Matt’s office and calm down.

“I’m gonna go,” Frank says at last, running his hands through Matt’s hair and letting out a breathy laugh as Matt’s hands begin to wander. “Karen said Nelson’s family’s providing a decent spread and told me if she has to watch Nelson and Marci under the mistletoe all night she’s gonna hurl.”

“So she’d rather watch us make out under the mistletoe instead?”

“Nah, I think the plan was to not tell you where it is and hope you don’t sniff it out,” Frank says with a grin. “Besides, you and Nelson have gotta be good hosts. No sneakin’ off with your dates like a couple of frat boys.”

Matt hums, keeping his hands above Frank’s waist but moving into decidedly PG-13 territory. His lips follow the line of Frank’s beard, teeth flashing at the bolt of Frank’s jaw. “It’s gonna be the usual, with a few of our favourite colleagues. I invited Luke, Danny, Jessica, and Colleen – please try to not threaten to break Danny’s knees this time, he’s basically a puppy and you’ll be in a room full of lawyers – and a couple of my Avengers contacts. Do you think you’ll be okay with them?”

Frank doesn’t really care much for Danny, but he’s happy to sit back with Jessica and make fun of Matt and Nelson when they get too boozed up. His skin still prickles at the mention of the Avengers though; he still blames them for everything that happened – which isn’t fair, he knows, but he has to blame someone.

Accepting what _did_ happen is part of his recovery process though, and his therapist has been encouraging him to do small things that push him out of the nice little bubble he has between home and work. Attending a party with an Avenger would certainly be out of that comfort zone and a good test of his temper.

“I’ll behave,” he replies, turning his face to follow Matt’s lips. He can never get enough of Matt lately; he’s probably been overly clingy and almost smothering with his affections, but it’s sometimes the only thing that grounds him. “People might talk though, seein’ you with known superheroes, especially ones associated with Daredevil.”

Matt grins against Frank’s lips and pushes himself back up and off the bed, the tease. “I thought of that, yeah, so I had something made for the occasion, I just can’t find where it ended up in the closet.”

Frank crosses his arms behind his head and grunts as Max trots into the bedroom and hops onto the bed and flops onto Frank’s chest. “I’d help you but somethin’ tells me I’m gonna hate it.”

~*~*~*~

Frank does, in fact, hate it.

He and Matt show up just late enough for the party for Matt to make his entrance, the arrogant bastard. Matt’s wearing an obnoxious red sweater with the words “I’m Not Daredevil” across the front and he’s wrapped his cane up in red ribbon like a candy cane. It’s certainly going to draw the eye of everyone at Josie’s, which has the side effect of drawing every eye to Frank as well.

Frank doesn’t like the attention, he never has. He’s wearing a simple black button down and his nicest jeans as a compromise – Matt had wanted him to wear some ugly ass sweater as part of the party and Frank had threatened to stay home – but he still can feel the eyes on him as they enter the bar, the unfamiliar faces looking from him to the garishly dressed Matt.

As always, bless Karen Page. She spots them immediately and links her arm through Frank’s, guiding him over to a corner of the bar as Matt makes his rounds and exchanges enthusiastic greetings with a rather tipsy Nelson.

“Saved you a spot, Frank!” Karen chirps, rubbing Frank’s arm gently. “You remember Jessica, right?”

Frank does, and he gives her a nod and gets a roll of her eyes in return. “Jones,” he says, which is about as much as he’s ever said to her in five years. She was the only one of Matt’s superhero squad who wasn’t killed in the initial Event, and she’d let Frank crash a few times during his year-long violence bender. He’s grateful to her, and they’ve even gotten together once or twice after The Blip – as close to a new friend as Frank Castle gets these days.

“I figured this could be the anti-social corner,” Karen says, signalling the bartender for a beer. “My friend here will have a ‘nog.”

“The ‘nog tastes like rotten eggs, but it’s not so bad if you throw in some moonshine,” Jones says helpfully, taking a swig from a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. She frowns, glaring down into the bottle like it’s offended her. “Well, I guess _you_ can’t add the moonshine. More for me.”

The ‘nog _does _taste like shit, but Frank’s come to expect that from Josie’s. Jones is right and moonshine would probably make it better, but he’s coming up on a year sober and he’s pretty sure anything remotely alcoholic coming out from Josie’s bar would probably put him in the hospital at this point.

His eyes track Matt automatically across the room as he exchanges handshakes and hugs with various guests. Frank knows he’s being too hypervigilant, that the twitching of his fingers and the urge to go wrap himself around Matt and hide him from the world isn’t healthy. Even safe here with Karen, with Jones, with his back to the corner and a full view of the bar, he’s stressed; maybe the choice to come had been the wrong one. Maybe he’s not ready for this big of a crowd yet.

Matt’s got one arm around Nelson’s shoulders as they make their way across the bar. Someone’s shoved a glass of wine in Matt’s hand, but he sips it slowly, occasionally tilting his head in Frank’s direction, his broad grin faltering slightly as he listens.

“Go have fun, Red,” Frank murmurs under his breath and watches Matt’s lips quirk.

Marci comes bustling over, gives Frank a quick hug and compliments his beard before whisking Karen away to meet a friend she’s invited. She’s been less jittery around Frank, whether Nelson has told her things or if she’s just come to her own conclusions about her missing five years from having to live with Nelson’s residual trauma, Frank’s not sure. He’s grateful for her quiet support though; even Karen sometimes looks at Frank with pity in her eyes and there’s none of that with Marci.

He and Jones sip their drinks in companionable silence, Jones watching Luke Cage at the pool table with Rand and his girl and Frank’s eyes never leaving Matt.

The two of them project such a “fuck off” air, that Frank’s surprised when two men he doesn’t recognize make their way over to his corner and order drinks. The dark haired man leans in and whispers something to his companion, claps him on the shoulder, and takes his drink as he wanders back into the crowd.

“Good to see you’re still kickin’, Castle,” the remaining man says, and Frank does a double take as he recognizes the blond mohawk – now styled instead of tousled and flattened – and the bright purple hearing aids tucked behind his ears.

Ronin.

Frank swallows heavily, unsure if he should reach for his gun or not.

Jones reaches over, clinks her glass with Ronin’s, and nods where the other man wandered off. “We too much of a shit show for Barnes?”

“He’ll be back; Danny owes him money.”

“You…” Frank’s just blinking stupidly at this point. “You guys know each other?”

Ronin’s lips twist in a slightly crooked smile. “Me an’ Jess frequent the same dumpsters.” He holds out a hand to Frank. “Clint Barton. Forgot we haven’t officially met.”

_That_ name Frank knows, and he’s surprised he hadn’t put two and two together initially: Hawkeye, the Avenger gone rogue during The Event. He takes Barton’s hand and shakes it, somewhat mollified. “I, uh, I’m sorry about Romanoff,” he says quietly, remembering the affection in the Black Widow’s voice when she spoke of Hawkeye. “The world won’t be the same without her.”

“That is…” Barton lets out a bone-weary sigh. “That is true. She didn’t want some big fanfare, not her style. We owe her… well, we owe her everything.”

Frank raises his glass and taps Barton’s with it, bringing him back to the present. “To the Black Widow.”

“To Natasha,” Barton agrees, clinking Frank’s ‘nog and taking a long drink. He clears his throat, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. “Anyway, Murdock invited me and Buck, and I figured I’d say hi when we’re not trying to kill each other.”

“There’s always next time,” Jones drones from Frank’s other side and Barton laughs.

“Yeah, well, I’m taking an extended break, probably retirement. There’s a new, better Hawkeye out there, one without all this blood on her hands,” Barton says ruefully, running his hands through the longer strands of his hair. “Buck’s taking over as Murdock’s Avengers contact and I’ll stay at home like a worried housewife.”

Frank sips his ‘nog, looks around for Matt and relaxes when he spots him talking to Barton’s companion. “I kinda hated you at the time for it, but I owe you, man,” he says quietly, shifting away from Jones for some semblance of privacy.

Barton raises an eyebrow, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “You’d have done the same for me. We were all hurting, man; we all did things we aren’t proud of. We became the monsters we were supposed to be fighting.”

He turns and faces Frank, the purple of his hideous sweater matching his hearing aids. The image clashes with Frank’s memories of Ronin, too cheerful for the pain he still sees in Barton’s eyes.

“Did you know there was a chance they’d come back?” Frank asks, because he has to know, that dark day haunting a good portion of his dreams.

Barton shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “No. I’d lost all hope at that point, but I’d gone too far to go back, y’know? I just… I knew what you were going through, and I knew that there had to be a better way. The world had enough good people die,” he says, his voice low and rough with emotion as he traces the scratches and gouges in the old wood of the bar. “I knew if you were there that something had to have happened to Murdock – he was fuckin’ head over heels for you, man, it drove him nuts – and that maybe if I couldn’t crawl back, maybe you could.”

Frank snorts, heat rising to his cheeks. He looks away, down at the dregs of his ‘nog. “Lotta faith on someone who was tryin’ to kill you.”

“Yeah, well, Nat always said I was an optimist,” Barton replies flippantly, bumping his shoulder with his companion’s – Barnes? - as the man returns and takes a seat. “None of us are the same though.”

They never will be, Frank knows. Even Nelson, who never gave up on Frank, never stopped fighting, is different. He’s more serious, more aggressive in the courtroom, prone to long bouts of silence. Matt tells him these things, late at night when their demons are somehow easier to face, that some days he doesn’t recognize Foggy, and that almost throws him more than anything.

“We don’t need to be the same,” Frank says after a moment, watching Barnes lean in silent support against Barton. “We just need to keep moving forward.”

Barton nods, signs something to Barnes, and finishes the last of his drink in one long pull. He pats Frank on the shoulder and rises. “You get it. Give Murdock some time and be patient with him. Time jumps aren’t something he’s had to deal with.”

“Lucky bastard,” Barnes mutters.

“Be nice, Buck,” Barton laughs, kissing Barnes’ cheek. “We’ve gotta go cause a scene under the mistletoe. Any time you’re in Brooklyn, Castle, look me up, okay? Murdock’ll give you my number. Jessica –“

“Get fucked.”

Barton blows Jones a kiss and visibly straightens, his expression transforming to something less melancholy and more festive. Throwing an arm around Barnes’ waist, he waves at Frank and the pair disappear into the crowd.

The itch under Frank’s skin is back. He grimaces as he swallows the last of his ‘nog and chases it with whatever virgin margarita Jones has ordered for him just to cleanse his palate and stands, searching the packed bar for Matt.

Everyone’s wearing red, of course, and hideous sweaters, so when he doesn’t spot Matt immediately, he swears and tells himself he’s being stupid. He had a good conversation, took his eyes off Matt for a few minutes, and the world didn’t end, he’s gotta be _somewhere _around –

“Hey, good lookin’.”

Frank lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding and turns as a familiar arm snakes around his waist. “You have no idea what I look like.”

“I have it on good authority that you’re attractive though,” Matt purrs, leaning in close to nose under Frank’s jaw. “And you smell good, which is more important to me anyway.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not very,” Matt shrugs and kisses Frank quickly, letting him taste the wine on his tongue. “And you can’t take a compliment. Just proud of you for talking to Clint and for being here.”

Frank leads them over to a corner and Matt sets his wine glass down on the corner of the pool table. He’s initially irritated; he hasn’t told Matt the whole story of his encounter with Ronin – with Barton – but he knows Matt’s sharp enough to have read through the lines.

“Before you ask: no, I didn’t invite him to get him to talk to you. I invited him because he’s my friend,” Matt says, keeping his hand on Frank’s forearm, his thumb stroking soothingly. “But I’m glad he did find you and introduce himself.”

“You listened in,” Frank says without rancor, his body swaying automatically into Matt’s space. He rests his hands on Matt’s waist and snorts again at the idiotic sweater.

“Kinda hard for me not to,” Matt replies, gesturing at his ears. “I was listening for your heartbeat just in case all this got too much, if it helps my case any.”

“And you’re nosy.”

Matt shrugs, the hand holding his cane moving around Frank’s back and resting between his shoulderblades. “Lawyer. Required personality trait,” he laughs. “But, uh, while we’re here, there’s some mistletoe, and I think you’ve gotta do something about that.”

Frowning, Frank blinks and looks around, noting their friends have gathered round the pool table. “There’s no mistletoe here, Red; it’s on the other side of the bar, just look for Barton and Barnes.”

Nelson coughs and smirks. His cheeks are rosy again, something Frank hasn’t seen in five years, and he’s got an arm wrapped around Marci’s waist. “Might wanna look up, Frank, my man,” he says, gesturing with his wine glass.

Frank looks up and can’t resist an exasperated eyeroll. Dangling a few inches above his head is a sprig of mistletoe tied to Matt’s white cane. “You’re an asshole, Red; you know that?”

Matt laughs and tugs Frank in close for a kiss as Marci holds up her camera. “Merry Christmas, Frank.”

~*~*~*~

The rest of the party goes by uneventfully as far as Frank’s concerned. He joins Barton and Barnes for a game of darts that Barton eventually wins, but the competition draws a substantial crowd. A few people have murmured about Matt’s sweater, but Frank gets the idea that most of the guests are used to superheroes enough that they won’t blow his cover.

It’s shortly after midnight when Matt announces their departure and they make their way out of the bar with plenty of goodbyes and well wishes.

“How are you feeling?” Matt asks, one hand resting on the inside of Frank’s bicep as he lets Frank guide them through the quiet Manhattan streets back to their apartment.

Tired, but Frank supposes that’s to be expected. He was never big on parties or big social engagements to begin with, and certainly not after The Event, but he’s not as drained as he thought he would be. Even better, the Devil hasn’t made even a hint of an appearance, something Frank had been worried about.

He presses his lips against Matt’s hair, his free hand coming up to cover Matt’s. This wasn’t something he thought he’d ever get a second chance at: to walk through the lightly falling snow on Christmas Eve with the man he loves, and he’s not about to waste his second chance.

Clearing his throat, he stops, tapping Matt’s hand and pulling him around.

Matt cocks his head curiously, brows narrowing slightly behind the red sunglasses. He shifts his cane under his arm and rests his palm against Frank’s chest, right above his heart.

“Look, uh… shit,” Frank falters, looking down at their snow-covered shoes. His cheeks are pink from more than just the cold and he starts a little when he feels Matt’s hand on his face. “I’m not very good at this, and you know that, and I… I’ve played that day over and over in my head, trying to think of what I would do differently.”

“Frank…” Matt says, his voice full of affection as he traces the planes of Frank’s face.

“No, lemme get this out while I can. Every time I’ve loved someone, something horrible has happened to them and I’ve been helpless to stop it. I lost my wife, I lost my kids, I lost you.” Frank’s voice breaks a little bit and he feels a little ridiculous, being unable to meet a blind man’s eyes. “Every day I wake up thinking this is just another nightmare and you’re going to turn to dust any second.”

Matt’s quiet, his head leaning toward Frank as he listens to more than just Frank’s words. Everything Frank’s having a hard time saying is in his heartbeat, in every breath he takes, all the things Frank can’t hear but Matt can read as well as anything said verbally.

“I know I’m not the same man you knew, Matt, and as much as I want to be, things are…” Frank lets out a breath and rests his forehead against Matt’s. “Things are hard. Things are sometimes shit. But I’m trying my best and I’m gonna keep trying my best. I just don’t want you to give up on me.”

Warm lips press against Frank’s, soft and reassuring. Matt’s nails scratch lightly in Frank’s hair, sending shivers along Frank’s spine.

“I love you,” Frank whispers, his voice barely audible even in the almost reverent silence, the words sending his heart racing as they tumble from his lips. “And I don’t know how often I’ll be able to tell you ‘cause it still scares the shit outta me, but I couldn’t have the last time I told you be that day.”

“I don’t expect you to say it,” Matt reassures him, his thumb stroking over Frank’s cheek. “I didn’t want to change you then and I don’t want to change you now, Frank. What you and Foggy went through… God, I can’t even imagine. But I don’t want you to think that you have to rush anything or do anything for me at all. You’re healing, Frank, and that’s what’s most important.”

Frank kisses Matt’s temple and pulls him in close, wrapping his arms around Matt’s chest and holding him tight. He’s afraid to shut his eyes, that pang of fear of Matt crumbling away in his arms flashing through him again.

But Matt remains warm in his arms, a solid, muscular weight that presses back into him, and a steady heartbeat against his own.

Frank’s not sure how long they’re standing like that, wrapped tightly around each other in the gently falling snow, with Matt murmuring soothing prayers and soft words of encouragement into Frank’s ears and Frank trying to catch his breath and hold back his tears.

They make it back to their apartment and let Max out quickly before retiring to the bedroom. Words aren’t needed anymore, not when they’re like this.

Healing. It’s a strange concept to think of, now that Frank knows he _has _a future, and he’s sure that’s what he’s doing now. It’s not an easy road – not that Frank’s ever chosen easy – and he knows it won’t be a short one, full of twists and turns and mountains to overcome, but here in the comfortable silence broken only by the sound of their breathing, the quiet gasps that fall from their lips, the gentle brush of skin on skin, Frank can clearly see where he’s going.

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are the hole in my head  
You are the space in my bed  
You are the silence in between  
What I thought and what I said  
You are the night-time fear  
You are the morning when it's clear  
When it's over you'll start  
You're my head, you're my heart  
-"No Light, No Light" by Florence and the Machine


End file.
